


Girls and Boys

by Lindsey (Lipstick)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon, Drabble Collection, F/M, Friendship/Love, One Shot Collection, PWP, Romance, Sexual Content, really just bits of everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 44,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lipstick/pseuds/Lindsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots depicting the relationship between Eren and Mikasa in various ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I feel like I should mention a couple of things!
> 
> These stories will vary, in content and length. Some will be very long, while others shorter in length. Some will be based on the manga while others may dabble into AU. 
> 
> I am happy to take requests, so feel free to leave me a comment or reach me on my tumblr @ itsjustlindsey.
> 
> Thank you, I hope everyone who reads them enjoys!

There are some moments when Mikasa wishes the world would stand still.

These moments are rare and infrequent because she doesn’t normally like to waste time on wishing for illogical and impractical things, but once in a while she stops and hopes. 

As Eren is lifting up her shirt, tucking it beneath her breasts and exposing her stomach, she thinks about how this is one of those moments. He’s kissing her body beneath the stars, the hot summer air making their bodies stick together. His lips kiss under the curve of her breasts, his tongue warm as he traces their outline. She’s sure her normal composure has caved, that she’s shaking and nervous, but she can’t feel it; she’s not aware of time anymore. 

He creates a trail downward to her bellybutton, placing kisses along the way. He stops at the button of her pants. In the moments that follow she feels his hesitation, and swears the world halts; the stars stop twinkling, her heart pauses, and the earth is silent.

But just as quickly as her heart stopped it starts again, beating louder than before. She swears Eren will hear it and smile at her, cock his head and laugh, ask her, _Are you nervous?_ But he doesn’t, and although she can feel how much he wants her through his clothes, brushing against her leg, he doesn’t do anything but rest his head on her stomach over the spots he had been kissing. 

Time is stopping for him, too.


	2. Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the quote, "They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

In Eren’s arms, Mikasa feels safe. She can hear his steady breathing and feel the warmth of his skin; she can relax to the rise and fall of his chest. His even breathing lets her know he’s drifted off long before she’s even closed her eyes. He’s sitting up, leaning against the wall of his bed, neck crooked. She knows he’ll complain about it in the morning.

His arms are reassuring around her waist, and she grips his torso even tighter, worried if she lets go for a moment he’ll vanish like most everything else in her life. They’re in an unhealthy routine with her coming to his bed every night. Mikasa knows Eren has become her security blanket, but she can’t bring herself to part with the moments of sanity he provides. Her world has so little guarantees anymore that she’s learned to appreciate the moments of normality. With her head resting over his heart, Mikasa likes to consider herself its protector. 

His legs are crossed, and she knows the cramps they’ll have in the morning will be another complaint on his list. She wonders for a second why he never tells her to go back to her own bed. Her legs dangle over his, clearly visible in the open if anyone should look over. They’re breaking too many rules and boundaries. She knows they’ll be caught eventually by superiors, perhaps sent out of the corps in disgrace for their disobedience. 

It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, she thinks, to live out the rest of her life inside the walls with Eren. They would work hard together and find a small cabin like the one they grew up in. They’ll have a dog, she thinks, because Eren would need the company of another living thing besides her. Or, maybe… Maybe they would have a family of their own, two children to raise together. The imagery causes her face to flush and she’s glad Eren can’t see her face in sleep. 

She closes her eyes for a second and contemplates her earlier thought. Why doesn’t Eren ever send her back to her own bed? They’re risking a lot for these few hours of peace together and Eren has complaints about his aching body every morning. She debates leaving to her own bed once again. As she starts to slide out of his arms, she feels his hold on her tighten. 

His voice is hoarse and cracked, laced with sleep, as he murmurs, “Stay.” It’s eerie to her the way he already seemed to know her plans. When did their minds become that connected? She glances up at him for a second and wishes, not for the first time, that she didn’t need this comfort to fall asleep.

As she lays her head back down on his chest, she feels his breathing steady once more, and realizes she might not be the only one who needs it.


	3. Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read some amazing Eren/Mikasa pregnancy stories lately, they really helped me finish this one that was tucked away a month or so ago.

Mikasa catches herself frequently sneaking off throughout the day to observe her body in the mirror, switching the angles of her torso around, playing with the lighting. She can see through her uniform the small, growing bump. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there – the first and official sign of her pregnancy. 

It’s not a welcome surprise.

She places her hands on her stomach, attempting to guess how far along she might be. Eight weeks? Ten? She’s not sure, and trying to recall the possibility of when it might’ve happened is impossible. Perhaps it was when they snuck off to the creek or the night when they had been under the stars together. 

They’re good memories and she wants to keep them that way.

Eren, she thinks, will have to know soon. But she knows he’s so focused on his own problems the last thing she wants to do is intentionally bury him with all of hers as well, even if this is technically _both_ their faults. She worries her lip between her teeth, tugs at the scarf around her neck. 

She had been in denial about it initially, attributing her nausea to the stress they all felt. She mistook her odd cravings for the hunger they all had. She almost didn’t want to acknowledge the truth, but it was undeniable the way her pants were tightening, the way a small curve was forming on her normally flat, toned stomach, the same area Eren had kissed many times. 

If she’s honest, she’s terrified; it’s a terror akin to when she thought Eren had died. She considers for a brief second that her own death might be an easier solution than dealing with this. She knows it’s a selfish thought and she has no desire to really harm herself or the child – this child created from love, _her_ lovechild. 

Despite her worries and her fears, she can’t help but feel a small, tiny sense of joy in their accident. She glances around, assured that there’s no one else whose snuck in to the room, before she raises her shirt up and tucks it under her breasts in a way that reminds her so much of the night Eren made her body melt beneath the stars. She finally lets herself fully look at her stomach without the protection of a shirt.

It looks even smaller and more delicate without a layer of clothing to cover it. The skin is already breaking, thin stretch marks making their presence known. She couldn’t deny it now even if she wanted to. She runs her finger along one of them, counts them in her head – _one, two, three_. Three silvery, thin lines streaking her normally taut stomach. 

She loves them and she loves the small curve that’s growing. 

But for all her love, she thinks of terror, and there’s sadness that comes with it. Her parents were never able to see her mature into a woman who could have children; losing Eren’s parents was almost as tragic, for his family had become her own. None of those four people who gave their lives for her would see their grandchild.

She thinks of titans, too.

If something happens to her and Eren, then their child will be alone; unlike her, the child won’t have a second set of parents to fall back on and show unconditional love. She taps her fingers against her stomach and frowns when she imagines the potential life their child might have. If she stays with the corps, she risks not being a real mother to her child and, yet, if she abandons the corps, she leaves Eren in danger without any chance of protecting him. She’s deep in these thoughts when she feels a pressure on her shoulder and strong arms wrap around her. 

“Mikasa?” It’s Eren. “Are you planning something for me for later?” His voice is teasing and his hands inch upwards, a hand resting under each breast. He turns his head and nips at her neck, vying for her attention. His hands are warm and his face is sweaty and she almost asks what training he’s just come from practicing. 

She smiles despite her worries and brushes his hands off, tugging her shirt down. “If I was, you wouldn’t find out till later, anyway.” She turns in his arms and despite the fact that he’s dirty she kisses him. 

She rests her forehead on his shoulder, murmurs, “I love you,” to him. She doesn’t have all the answers and she doesn’t know how they’re going to handle this; Eren will no doubt be as lost and confused as her. But, she reasons, as long as she has him, together they’ll make it work.


	4. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only supposed to be a page and suddenly it just kept going and going... oops.
> 
> There's some profanity in here as well, if that bothers anyone.

When he regains consciousness, he’s hot and his body is on fire – at least, it feels that way. His head is delirious and disoriented. He can’t open his eyes; they feel swollen and heavy. Half-conscious, he doesn’t know if he’s dead or alive and suspects he’s somewhere in between. He hears voices around him, unfamiliar and unfriendly. There are phrases and sentences being tossed around and he doesn’t know what any of them mean. 

“I suspect it’s typhus,” a voice says. “He did cough up blood before he passed out.”

Eren wants to tell them he’s awake and can hear them fine. His attempts at using his voice fail; he hasn’t even made a hum. He tries to move his hand, but realizes it’s numb. He can’t move it. The voices keep talking. 

“What about pneumonia?” The second person clicks their tongue in disagreement with the first speaker. “The vomiting could be caused by any number of factors. He was perfectly fine right before.” 

“Well, we need to think of something,” a third voice says, clearly distressed. “We can’t afford to lose him. He’s too valuable.”

“We know!” the first voice snaps back in an angry whisper. Are they trying to avoid disturbing him or letting others around know his condition? 

Eren wracks his brain, trying to remember his last moments before his eyes closed, but finds it too jumbled and mixed to form anything coherent. His own thoughts are confusing him more. In his attempts to recall his memories, he falls into an even deeper sleep.

\----- 

When he feels his brain waking itself up again, he hears more voices, but they’re familiar this time, comforting to his restlessness. He hears Armin first, laughing quietly as he says, “Did Eren really do that?”

“Yes.” Although Eren can’t see her, he hears her smile, always stern and serious but sincere. He wants to ask what it is he’d definitely done but the moment has passed, even if had been able to make them aware of his consciousness. 

He hears them talk about the food being served, about the weather, about the shared childhood between Eren and Mikasa. Their small talk is everything but what Eren wants to know of – how did he get here? He tries again to wake his hand but finds it to still be immobile. If he can make a noise, he hopes they’ll be aware of his presence. He attempts to make a sound and although it’s uncomfortable at first, he feels a small hum in his throat and he’s excited because surely they’ve heard it. 

The room has gone quiet and it’s Armin who speaks first. “Mikasa… Don’t look at him like that. He could just be dreaming.” Eren wants to shout at him, his frustration building. He knows Armin is trying to comfort Mikasa, misguiding her in his attempts. He tries to make the sound again, pleading with his body to rouse from slumber. 

“He’s going to wake up,” Mikasa answers. Eren feels her fingers touch his hand, the calluses on them rough from her training and their explorations; the familiar touch is comforting. It reminds him of how they held hands when they were younger. 

“He just needs time.” She laces her fingers through his and although he can’t move them to hold hers, he wishes he could. She sounds so confident and he reminds himself to thank her for believing in him when his eyes open. 

Armin sighs and Eren hears how exhausted his friend sounds. He doubts they’ve left his bedside long except to sleep. “Of course he will, you know I believe that. It’s been a week. I’m sure he’s going to wake up any day now.” 

A week? It’s only been that long? He thinks of how a week feels like an eternity when it’s impossible to remember. He hears Armin ask, “I’m going to go get some food and rest. Are you coming, Mikasa?” 

“In a while…” Mikasa sounds tired and Eren wants to tell her to go sleep. He hears Armin leave and the room is quiet with just him and Mikasa, her hand still in his. 

“Eren, please wake up,” he hears her say quietly into his ear, her lips tickling him. He’s quiet and though he thinks about making another attempt to reach her, he holds off for just a moment. What will she say to him, thinking he may never rouse?

He feels her lips kiss the side of his jaw, the movement so quick and chaste, so unsure with childlike hesitance, he knows she’s never done something like it before with anyone. “I miss you,” she says, gripping his hand tighter. 

Her voice hardens, and he hears her voice grow stern, as though she can tell him what to do. “You have to wake up now, Eren. You don’t know what they’re planning.” She softens in the next moment, whispering close to his ear again so the walls won’t hear, “I don’t know what they’ll do with you if you don’t wake up soon.” 

She sounds so sad, so fucking sad, he wants to wake up just for her in that moment. He tries focusing his energy on the hand holding hers and imagines himself squeezing it, tightly. There’s a sharp intake of breath and he knows, at least to a limited extent, that he’s been successful. He’s overjoyed that finally someone is there to acknowledge him.

“Eren? Eren?” He feels her shaking his body and though he wants to move it, it’s dead weight to him. Still, she tries in vain, and grasps his hand again. “Do it again, Eren, do it again!” 

He tries once more to squeeze her hand and, although it’s a noticeably less strong than before, she feels it. Her excitement radiates and he swears it’s going to pour into him and rouse him, wake his soul. It’s wishful thinking, however, and the opposite happens; he finds himself exhausted and starting to seep away again. He last recalls Mikasa’s words in his ear, promising, “I’ll be here when you wake up,” and, for a brief second, he feels her lips on his forehead before he’s asleep again.

\----- 

The next time Eren is conscious, his eyes are willing to open. They’re heavy as rocks but they try, fluttering repeatedly. There are voices around him, some familiar, some not, and a lot of muffled noise. The room is bright, too bright, and his eyes struggle again, closing this time. He wants to tell them to pull the curtains over the window, but someone has already caught on, and the room dims once again. As his eyes start to open again with more ease than the previous time, he slowly becomes aware of the people in the room.

There’s Mikasa to his right, Armin to his left, closest to the door. There are other unfamiliar faces around him too, and although he wants to ask who they are, they’re not his priority. He hears one of the unknown voices say, “He’s finally awake.”

His eyes skim over to Mikasa, who meets his gaze. He suspects she wants to hug him but is weary of his condition; he tries to say hello to them, but all that comes out is a pained moan. One of the unfamiliar faces immediately steps forward, says, “Please rest some more, Eren, you need to conserve your strength.” He doesn’t know who the man is and he’s more annoyed at being told what to do after having just woken up.

It takes effort, but he turns his head to face Mikasa and offers her a weary smile. There’s relief in her smile to him and he feels her hand grab his and he squeezes it gently; he relaxes when he feels her lace their hands together. It’s an act that’s almost intimate for them and it feels exposed with so many people around them. Her other hand touches his forehead and she announces, “His fever is gone.” 

Armin relaxes into the seat behind him, leaning forward as he says to Eren, “You’ve been gone for over a week. You couldn’t have woken up sooner?” It’s an attempt to be funny that falls flat. Eren smiles for Armin’s sake and looks around, attempting to take in the surroundings. 

The room is dark, lit only by two candles, with no decorations. There’s an empty bowl of soup next to his bedside, closest to Armin, who catches him looking at it. “Mikasa’s been helping feed you,” he says, glancing to her for a second. “It took her a while and it didn’t always go down… You might be hungry now, actually.”

He is, but he doubts anything will go down easy; his throat aches and he attempts words again. “Yeah… I am.” He’s surprised by how his voice cracks and how wheezy it is. He sounds like an old man and when he laughs, it sounds more like a cackle. He turns at the sound of the door opening and closing, sees the unfamiliar faces that had been talking around him earlier leave.

“They’ve been waiting for you to wake up, Eren… I think they were going to cut you open if you didn’t wake up in the next few days,” Mikasa says. She states it as a fact but he doesn’t miss the touch of malice in her voice. 

He considers this information, wonders if he would’ve felt them make incisions on his skin. Would he have been unconscious or awake to feel the pain? Would he have simply passed out again and never woken up? It would’ve either been painless or the most agonizing way to die. “I’m glad they didn’t,” he says slowly. “Too many titans to kill.” 

“Is that all you really care about?” Mikasa’s voice threatens to break into a high pitch, as though all her frustration could be shoved into one question. Her hand releases his.

Eren wants to tell her he’s too tired to be dealing with serious matters and his face must form a pout; she sighs, deeply, and says, “I’ll go get you some more soup. Your bowl is empty.” She leaves and he can’t help but notice she doesn’t grab the empty bowl from earlier.

“Try to be more considerate.” Armin sighs. Eren opens his mouth, perhaps to object or complain, but Armin rushes to continue: “She’s been worried about you all week, Eren. She barely sleeps. She had to fight with the doctors to keep you going for a few more days. She was being kind in saying you had days left, a few more hours is probably more accurate.”

“Oh.” He wants to get up and walk, to go find her, but he’s barely able to push himself up. Armin assists him, propping pillows behind him to better his balance. 

“They were in here discussing what to do with you if you didn’t wake up.” The way he says it leads Eren to believe his friend wasn’t sure how they were going to stall for much more time. “Mikasa kept telling them you’d survived worse. God, Eren, she’s been a wreck. I hope I don’t see her that way again.” 

“What did I survive?” Each word comes out a little more coherent than the last, voice gaining more definition and clarity. “As if I’d die that easy.” Short, simple sentences that are straight to the point are easiest for him to say. 

“Your body didn’t recover so well from the last battle,” Mikasa answers as she pushes open the cracked door with her hip, balancing a large bowl of soup in her hands with a spoon. “You looked at Levi, threw up, and said, ‘Fuck,’ right before you passed out. At first he was more worried you’d gotten it on his shoes.” She sits down in the chair opposite Armin and adds, “It would’ve been funnier if you had.” 

Armin glances at the door and back at Mikasa. “I’m sure Levi would want to know he’s awake now, though… I’ll go find him. Try to rest some more okay, Eren? But don’t walk, I don’t think you could handle it yet.”

“Yes, yes,” Eren answers, trying to stretch out his arms and legs. They fall after a few seconds, his body unable to hold the weight entirely. “I’ll be fine.” Short and simple sentences.

When Armin leaves, Mikasa is still sitting with the bowl and she offers to help him eat it. He accepts, but tries to rush himself in sipping and burns his tongue. She sighs and makes a point to blow on every spoonful afterwards. Was she this attentive his entire stay? 

“I heard you,” he tells her after some time. They had been silent for quite a while but it was peaceful, a quiet he could enjoy – his last few days of silence had been restless and uneasy, filled with thoughts and unanswered questions. He likes that he can think clearly now that fever isn’t racking his mind and body. 

She seems to pause for a second before pressing the spoon to his lips. “Heard me when? I talked to you a lot when you were asleep.”

“You promised you’d be here when I woke up.” He can’t help but give her a grateful smile after he’s swallowed more soup. “And you were.” If he’s honest, seeing her face before anyone else’s was the most welcoming part of waking up after being so unsure of his surroundings. He notices the way her head dips down a little, her short hair unable to hide her face as well as her long hair had. He’s sure she’s blushing.

“Someone has to watch out for you, you obviously can’t do it yourself.” She shoves more soup in his mouth before he can answer. “Everyone has been asking about you. Even Jean.” 

“To see if I’m dead?” Eren thinks he’s being funny until Mikasa’s relaxed demeanor stiffens. What a poorly timed joke, he muses, that he ought to have saved for a less threatening situation.

She looks up at him with something he thinks is pity. “They wanted you to stay asleep, those men. They wanted to dissect you. Do you remember when we found that dead dog with Armin when we were younger? How it was torn to bits from a wolf? They were going to take you apart just like that, Eren.” She swirls soup around with the spoon.

“Good thing I woke up.” Eren reaches out a stiff hand to her, which she takes after she’s set down the bowl. With more ease than the last time, she holds his hand. He wants to let her know he remembers that she’d done it when he was asleep, but he saves her that embarrassment. He’s liked holding her hand the past couple of times; she’s a comfort that reminds him he always has someone he can rely on.

She plays with his fingers in her hand, traces the outlines of them with her own. She counts them quietly, as if to verify he’s still whole. He notices that her hands are softer than normal and he’s sure she hasn’t left his room the entire time he’s been there. How much time did she spend talking to his listless body? He’s startled out of his thoughts when he feels her lips on each of his fingertips and still hears her counting them in whispers. 

“Mikasa?” His voice is unsure, weary of this type of closeness with her. The memory of her kiss on his forehead when she thought he was unconscious floats to the top of his head. He knows he’s blushing when she kisses his palm, her lips tickling the sensitive skin, causing little bumps to rise on his arms. He’s lucky she’s holding up his arm, for it surely would’ve fallen on its own by now.

She doesn’t answer him, and instead turns her head sideways, her cheek now in his palm. He’s confused and bewildered, wanting to ask her questions but sure if he speaks now this moment will be lost. His heart speeds up and he’s convinced his fever has started anew. She smiles and it’s so warming, so genuine, for that brief moment she’s the only person he’d die for ten times over. She doesn’t speak, but her lips move, and he doesn’t need to hear her words to know she’s said _I love you_. 

But this isn’t the girl he knows, the one who played in the dirt with him and outranked him in training. She looks vulnerable, like any other woman her age would in her position. Eren realizes, with a tinge of regret, that his choices brought her here, to give up the chance she had for a normal life to find someone who wouldn’t toss her in harms way. She would never get another opportunity in life to be this age again and yet, of her own volition, she was willingly spending it with him. 

He can think of nothing to say, except mouth back, _I know_. It seems to be a satisfactory answer, one he suspects she knew she’d get. He prays she understands that he’s not ready to love her the way she loves him, not yet. He needs more time, something they’re not guaranteed at all. It’s a flimsy excuse, but it’s the best he can do. He tightens his hold on her cheek a little and wonders if it would be selfish to kiss her. 

She pulls away, slowly at first, and then gently places his hand back down on the bed. He finds it oddly inspiring the way she can keep her composure so well while dealing with rejection. He knows one of them has to speak and break the private world they’d placed themselves in. 

It’s fitting it should be her.

“More soup? More soup.” She’s not really asking and she’s not really demanding, either. She picks up the bowl and places the spoon to his lips. She’s as gentle as before, taking her time with him as she patiently waits for him to recover from their moment. 

As he drinks it, he can’t help but notice the broth has cooled considerably.


	5. Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character death. _(I'm so sorry.)_

The first time Eren kisses Mikasa, they’re ten years old, and relaxing underneath a large oak tree not too far from home. They’re supposedly scavenging for berries and wood (“Better to look when it’s dry and hot then when it’s wet and rainy!” his mother had said), but it’s hot and they’re taking a break underneath the shade. His head is in her lap and his eyes are closed; he’s spent the better part of the last twenty minutes daydreaming in and out.

Mikasa’s hands play with his hair, tugging gently at the dirty, unruly locks. She’s untangling the knots while making him flower accessories. He now proudly owns four rings, two necklaces, an anklet, and is aware that she’s making him a crown to match. He’s glad Armin isn’t around to see him this way because, although he’s sure Armin wouldn’t tease him too much, he doesn’t want to go down a notch in anyone’s books, either. 

They talk, mostly about Eren’s desire to join the survey corps, until Eren’s curiosity gets the best of him and he asks, “Where did you learn to do all this?” 

He feels her fingers pause in her handiwork before she answers, “My mom. She used to make them with me. I’d surprise my dad with them when he got home.” She resumes her work and Eren wants to ask more, surprised she’d revealed what she had. She rarely mentioned them and he wasn’t stupid enough to bring them up himself. 

“You can ask, it’s okay,” she says, tying the last knot on her crown. “Sit up? I want to put this on you.” He complies, crossing his legs as she faces him. She leans in close, her lips near his nose as she puts it on his head. He feels her fingers adjust it and weave it into his hair. 

“I’m sure… he loved them,” Eren finally says. He’s young and at a loss for words in this situation that is far more mature than him. 

“He did,” she agrees. She’s quiet for a moment before she adds, “Almost as much as I love you.” 

His face flushes and his head bows, heavy with embarrassment. “You can’t just say things like that!” He hears her clothes rustle, sees her face appear before his. 

“But it’s true, Eren. Until angels close my eyes,” she promises. She says it with as much seriousness as she can – which, for all she’s seen and been through, is quite a lot. He believes her. 

He nods his head once, leans in just a little and whispers, “Until angels close my eyes.” Their lips touch briefly, a ghost of a kiss, and their pact is sealed. 

\----- 

The last time Eren kisses Mikasa, they’re seventeen; she’s just been pulled from rubble and barely breathing. Titan’s lay dead around them, smoke rising and clouding his vision, but Eren could spot her a mile away. She’s clearly in a tremendous amount of pain and he’s screaming at anyone and everyone who will listen. Can’t they see she needs help? Can’t they see the blood?

But the problem is they _can_ see she needs help. They _can_ see all the blood.

They all see her ribs, concaved and broken. She’s gasping and the corners of her mouth are prickled with fresh blood. Her stoicism is broken in these last moments and pain is evident in the way she’s breathing but not moving, exhaling more than she’s taking in.

She isn’t going to make it. 

It doesn’t stop Eren from trying to save her.

He kneels by her, looking around at the circle of people gathering. Gathering, he thinks, to see how low the best has come. “Help her, fucking help her! Grab bandages and start making splints! She needs medicine _now_!” There’s a scramble behind him and though they know it’s all for naught ( _he_ knows it’s all for naught), they do it for him, for this last reassurance. 

Tears, hot and heavy, are pouring down his face, landing on her clothes. He sees her open eyes watching him and knows, even as she’s lingering by a thread, that she’s attempting to reassure him. 

“Do you remember,” she says slowly, a deep breath between each word that causes her face to pinch, “how long I said I’d love you?” 

“This isn’t the time for that, it’s not time for _that_ , it’s too early!” Eren begs, as though he can reverse the damage, as though he can heal her wounds with his hands. He tears off parts of his shirts, attempting to make tourniquets for her bleeding wounds. 

“It’s time, Eren,” she says and he hears the soft plea in her voice. She’s aware of the little time she has left and he stops tearing at his clothes. She doesn’t want to fade off on words of unimportance. “What… did I tell you? Until…what?”

“Until angels,” he answers and he’s crying harder. He hates himself for not being stronger in these last few moments with her. “Until angels close our eyes.” A smile graces her face and he sees the amount of effort it takes for her to partly raise a hand – he meets it half way, holding hers tightly. His fingers intertwine around hers, digging his nails into her skin. 

“It’s not time,” Eren repeats with less certainty, leveling his face to hers on the ground. “Tell them to go away.” 

“Too late. They’re here,” she answers and leans her face into his, closing the last bit of distance between them; their lips touch together for the last time. His arms are under her when she falls back, catching her before her head hits the ground. He hears her last breath, watches her eyes close before the flame of her life is extinguished. She finally looks peaceful, a look he’s never seen on her till then. It’s the extent of a compliment he can give her in that moment, because death isn’t peaceful or pretty, and in life Mikasa was so much more than peaceful or pretty. 

He picks her up, aware of how her body is still warm and blood is still dripping from her injuries. He cradles her to his chest, holding her like a lover and a child at once. He places a kiss on her forehead and promises, “I’ll always love you, until angels close my eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write, I actually got a little upset doing it! I'm going to make an effort to write something much sweeter/cuter and post it sometime this weekend. I've also changed the description of these one-shots to something I feel is more appropriate. (I don't want to give the impression these are all feel-good stories when they're not.) 
> 
> I also have to give proper credit, the lines are based off a book I fell in love with, called "Until Angels Close My Eyes." It's a very good (and sad!) book.


	6. Color

Mikasa only dreams in black and white. 

It started only after the death of her family, as though their deaths took the color from her life. Normally her dreams are nightmares, plagued with reoccurring memories. She hears her mother’s voice, telling – no, _begging_ – her to run. Even in her dreams she stands stone still, afraid and lost, watching her mother and father die. These dreams are reoccurring and happen no less than once a week, sometimes more, but they always linger around her for hours after she’s woken up. She always struggles to go back to sleep afterwards. 

It’s one of these nights that she’s woken up, panting and sweating, in Eren’s bed. He'd finally been given his own room -– mostly, she learns after he's received it, because of the complaints from everyone else that he's constantly screaming in his sleep and it's beginning to scare the others. She can't help but wonder when his own night terrors had begun. His seem to be less frequent than hers but tend to shake him more profoundly. He's always in a sullen and irritable mood the day after. 

She brushes hair from her eyes and glances over at his sleeping form, relieved to see he’s still asleep. She reaches over and puts a hand on his forehead and a chill runs through her – he’s cold, too cold for a human body. 

“Eren?” she whispers, shaking his body to no avail. She rolls him over, places her ear near his heart, trying to listen for a sound, only to find there is none. The panic in her rises and she’s shaking him, screaming his name, when she sees her world darken; his skin color fades and the room turns to neutral shades of grey. She stops shaking him and crawls to the end of the bed, wrapping her arms around her body. Her eyes close tightly and she’s crying, the same scared, helpless child she’d been before. 

“Mikasa? Mikasa?” 

There are strong hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently. She feels her lungs gasp, hears the deep breath she takes in as Eren wakes her. She’s aware that her face is streaked with tears and her body is shaking. Eren attempts to pull her into his arms, but she puts her hands on his chest and shoves him away. It’s humiliating for him to see her like this, weak and vulnerable. 

Even in her dreams, she dreams of nightmares. 

But her terror is diminished upon seeing Eren alive and well; she instantly regrets pushing him away moments earlier. Moonlight from outside creeps through the window and illuminates his worried face. She steadies herself before inching closer to him, letting his arms wrap around her; relief floods her as she hears the rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat. He’s warm, he’s soothing, and he’s alive. 

His hands hold onto her waist, his chin resting atop her head, and he says, quietly so as not to startle her more, “Another bad dream?” She nods her head and leans into him more, her hands sliding up underneath his shirt. The heat from his skin is reassuring. 

He rubs her back in small circles and asks, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

She shakes her head and wraps her arms around his torso, sliding her legs around him too. She hides her face in the crook his neck. An earthy scent rolls off him in waves, mixed with sweat, dirt, and now her tears. He struggles to find an even balance for a moment before he rests his hands on her lower back and now they’re both leaning into each other – fitting, as they’ve always been each other’s biggest supporters. 

By now he’s used to waking her up from these terrors. Most of her nights are spent in his room and she’s often done the same for him, waking him when he’s thrashing about, but his nightmares are less frequent than hers. He often dreams that, as children, Mikasa doesn’t make it out alive with him, that she’s been trapped under the wooden beam with his mother. Those are the worst, imagining what might’ve been if she had stayed home with her that day. 

When her lips start to pepper kisses at his neck, her hands tickling the skin on his stomach, he’s aware of what she’s trying to initiate. He twists their bodies to be able to lay her down, straddling her. With the small light filtering through the room he can see her wet eyes are closed. He leans down to brush them off her cheeks and sighs. She’s done this before, attempting to use him for comfort after a particularly bad dream; it took him a couple of times to realize she was using him to pacify her worries. 

Her hands lace into his hair as he’s kissing down her body. His lips trace the outline of her breasts through her shirt, one hand supporting his balance and the other teasing the inside of her thigh. When her breathing begins to pick up pace again, he knows that it isn’t from being scared. Her eyes peek open to watch him and he offers her a sheepish smile. He leans up and touches their noses together before he kisses her.

“Better?” he asks, nipping at her lower lip, tugging at it gently between his teeth. He feels her mouth curve back against his lips, her head nod in agreement. 

“Better,” she replies. He lies down and opens an arm for her, waiting till she’s settled before turning his body sideways and draping his other arm across her body. He pulls her closer to him, his lips lightly touching her forehead as he tries to fall back asleep. Mikasa curls her body as closely as she can to him, waiting for his arms to loosen around her and let her know he’s drifted off before she allows herself to close her eyes and slip away too. 

Deep in sleep, for the first time in many years, she dreams in color again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't come out as happy as I originally meant for it to be but I did have a lot of fun writing their cuddling scenes at the end!


	7. Displacement

Sometimes, when Jean is sure Mikasa isn't looking in his direction, he watches her from the corner of his eye. 

She's beautiful and smart; he likes listening to her speak because she’s always calculated and intentional. She never makes a fool of herself with ridiculous words and even when she is being irrational, it’s rightly so. She’s wise and knowledgeable from experiences he’s sure she’ll never share with him. He’s never met someone with as much natural talent as her. These are thoughts and compliments he isn’t planning on telling her. They’re praises she wouldn’t mind hearing, but he's not the person she wants them from. He’s someone she cares for, to a limited extent, but he knows he isn’t her priority and, in all honesty, will more than likely never be. 

He's not stupid. He might be brash and quick to act, and certainly more than a little intrinsically motivated, but these are traits ironically similar to the person she cares about most. 

Jean wants to hate Eren.

He wants to, but he can’t, despite the feelings he has formed out of jealousy. Eren is the person closest to her and Jean can’t help but feel if he weren’t around, he would stand a much better chance at winning her over. Jean knows he’s selfish; he hopes for a wedge between the pair that he can nicely squeeze himself into. 

He comes upon them one afternoon kissing on her bed, Eren’s hand on her cheek and hers laced into his hair. Their faces are red even before they realize he’s stepped into the room. He suspects this isn’t the first time they’ve done this and can’t decide if that makes the situation better or worse. The moment is clearly private, intimate; it fills the room and almost suffocates him. They have the decency to be embarrassed – Mikasa avoiding his eyes altogether and Eren staring straight at him with a redder, more flushed face – but the damage is done. 

He attempts a weak, half-hearted promise that he won’t tell anyone, flashing a smile as sincere as he can muster. When he leaves, he makes a point to close the door loudly, resting his back against it after he does. He sighs while popping his knuckles and cracking his back. 

He laughs, a sardonic sound that echoes around him as runs his hands through his hair. He can hear rustling inside behind the closed door, the sounds of two people scrambling to look presentable. 

When he says aloud, “I hate you, you fucker,” even he doesn’t know which of the two inside his words are directed at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason for this title (Displacement) refers to when, in psychology, a person misplaces their anger. If someone gets mad at their boss but takes it out on a spouse, that is displacement (or displaced anger).


	8. Scarf

The ground is hard on Eren’s knees and it doesn’t help that he can’t see the surrounding area to be entirely sure of what is going on. He’s knows there’s a tight scarf blindfolded around his eyes, that his wrists are tied together loosely with rope that burns his skin when he tries to move it off. He could easily stand up, as his ankles aren’t bound, but he doesn’t. He is, however, acutely aware of his environment; he can smell the dirt from the earth, hear the sound of rustling leaves, and feel the cool breeze from the evening on his skin. Raised flesh on his arms keeps him alert and he nearly jumps when he hears words whispered into his ear: “Are you ready?” 

He’s unsure why it startles him so much, as he knows the only person around him is Mikasa. They’re in the woods together, taking advantage of a rare chance to be alone. He’s spent the last few minutes intentionally listening for her next move, her next action; but she was as silent as she is stealthy and her skills far outrank his. He knows she likes him best this way, on his knees and compliant for her – he suspects it has something to do with him never listening to her words unless he’s in this position. His knees ache from being rested in the same position for so long, but he doesn’t much mind; he likes trying to guess her next move. 

A smirk he isn’t aware of appears on his face and he feels Mikasa tighten the scarf around his eyes, darkening his vision just a little more. She threads her hands in his hair, tugging his head back as she says, “I asked you a question. Are you ready?” 

There’s a nip at his jaw, a rough tug on his hair before he answers, “Aren’t I always?”

\----- 

Mikasa can’t speak, but she isn’t bothered too much by the inability; she’s a person of few words as it is. The scarf normally around her neck is being used as a temporary gag, tied loosely behind her. She knows she could push it out with her tongue if she truly wanted. She’s clothed but barely, lying in only her underwear and a large, old shirt. Earlier, they had made a game of removing her excess clothes, spending too much time teasing each other in-between. Now she thinks it’s a little cruel to have removed her clothes, as she always leaves Eren fully dressed when she toys with him. 

No, she doesn’t at all mind the gagging or being half-naked. What is frustrating to her is the way she’s being made to stare at the wall, unable to speak of how much she hates being forced to stare at said wall. She can hear movement behind her, but she can’t move to look; her legs and wrists are bound together to their respective partners, done so by a knot similar to the one she often ties up Eren with. 

He’s learning to take notes from her, apparently. 

There are fingers on the bottoms of her feet, tickling her. She tries to kick his hand away but he grabs her ankles and holds her still. She doesn’t have to see his expression to know he’s smirking, no doubt enjoying this moment in time when he’s stronger than her when he so often isn’t. These are his favorite moments with her.

It’s a warm night and her shirt clings to her skin. When Eren starts to lift it up from her back, it feels like a second layer of skin being peeled away. This is her favorite part with him, the curiosity of wondering what he’ll do to her next. She feels his lips touch the top of her spine and leave kisses downward, carefully going over and around her bound wrists. He stops at the base of her spine; she feels his cool teeth against her flushed skin and knows he’s smiling.

“Are you ready?” he breathes, raising the flesh beneath it. She can’t vocalize a response, but he already knows her answer.

\----- 

They both like it best when the scarf lies between them, resting on the bed like a sleeping child. Mikasa takes in the scent and thinks of the day she met Eren, quite possibly the worst and best day of her life; Eren thinks of home, and he swears if he catches just the right scent from the right corner, he can still smell his mothers cooking. But for all its soothing powers, it can’t perform miracles. It doesn’t always keep away bad dreams or make them forget memories. What it does do is bond them together in far more ways than one. 

Mikasa lays her head down next to Eren’s, watches him arrange the scarf around her neck to splay out between them. He lays his head down next to hers, the scarf close to his nose, as he asks, “Ready?”

She yawns, leaning in and pressing a sleepy kiss to his lips before she answers, “Aren’t I always?”


	9. Practice

“Can I hold your hand?” Eren asks as they’re walking along the road in town. Mikasa looks down at his hands, grimy and dirty, his fingernails caked in mud. 

“My hand?” Mikasa asks, her face turning a shade of pink. She’s only just turned eleven and she’s never held hands with a boy before, let alone Eren. She looks at his outstretched hand and notices he’s not blushing but instead staring at her with curiosity.

“Why?” she asks, hesitantly reaching out to grasp his hand. Her hands are cleaner than his and she can feel the layers of grime rubbing off onto her. 

“I just want to, you know, get used to it,” he says, tugging her along behind him. “One day we’re going to have to hold hands with the person we marry, right? We should just get used to it now.” 

Mikasa considers his question, holding his hand with a little more confidence as she answers, “I guess that makes sense.” She wonders if he notices the way her hand tightens around his fingers, the way she leans into him just a little. 

When they’re close to his house, he lets go, but is startled when he feels her hand grapple for his again. Surprised, he looks back at her and says, “Are you okay? You look kinda red! We’re almost home so you can rest.” 

Ducking her head she murmurs, “I just wanna hold your hand a little longer.” 

Eren tilts his head just slightly, his cheeks flushing a little, as he replies, “Okay, but only because we’re practicing for when we’re older, right?”

“Yes,” she agrees, lacing their fingers tighter, “just so we’re practicing for the person we marry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note that this was mostly inspired by one of my favorite Beatles songs, "I Want to Hold Your Hand".
> 
> I also just really wanted an excuse to make them super cute and adorable.


	10. Rapture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mature content.

“Eren…” The sigh past her lips is breathy, heated; her body arches ever so slightly into her hand. Her fingers are teasing, coyly tickling herself above her underwear. There’s a hitch in her breath, swallowed by the surrounding quiet. She’s barely started and already seeing stars, touching the sky. 

She should stop—is potentially getting busted worth this?—but she can’t ( _won’t_ ).

When her fingers slip underneath, she presses against the small, tiny nub she knows will make her body jolt. The resulting shock slides through her veins, wakes her body up from any lingering tiredness she’d had from the day. There are stars—bright, warm, and welcoming—beneath her lids. 

She knows Eren wants her to wait for him—he said he’d follow behind her soon—but soon for him and soon for her is two different definitions. She’s likely to hear complaints in her ear later on for not waiting, but she can’t bring herself to care; her fingers have slipped inside and she forgets her earlier promise to wait. 

Sometimes she prefers it like this, alone and peaking by herself. Eren never intentionally puts pressure on her but she feels it anyway; that constant, habitual need to place his happiness above hers. Often his contentment comes at her expense, inside and outside of the bedroom. His regret is always evident when he’s finished before her; she finds it endearing how much he cares about her pleasure, even if it isn’t always a successful attempt. 

But these moments… in these moments by herself, she’s _always_ successful. She always reaches the moon and back. 

“Eren…” Her voice is louder, more pronounced, and she’s starting to almost regret not waiting for him. She curls the two fingers inside her slightly, angling them perfectly to make her squirm and writhe. Her thumb goes in small, practiced circles around the small bump that causes her breath to spike. She’s close—so fucking close—when she feels a hand over hers, stopping her motions.

“You couldn’t wait for me?” Eren’s breath ghosts against her ear. There’s an involuntary shiver that runs down her spine, tickles her back, and reminds her of her broken promise.

“You took too long,” she responds, hearing the hitch in her voice at being pulled away after being _so damn close_. She feels him remove her fingers from her body to be replaced by his. His fingers—longer with a much better, deeper curve than hers—are always a bit like heaven. If only he always had the patience to wait for her. 

“Oh, I did? I guess I should make it up to you.” His fingers easily replace hers and the quiet, hushed sound that roll off her tongue and past her lips sounds suspiciously like his name.

As he arches his fingers, maneuvering his hands just so, she sees stars—millions and millions of stars, so close she thinks she might be able to reach the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eren wasn't supposed to be in this chapter, guess he snuck himself in somehow?


	11. Inferno

Hell, Mikasa learns, is a survivable place that she often takes up residence in. Hell teaches her she can watch her comrades be eaten and not turn back to save them. It proves to her that her she can be hungry but still functioning at a hundred and ten percent. Hell lets her know that she’s human and forced into a situation she never particularly asked for. She learns the unfortunate truth that she doesn’t have to die to visit the Inferno. 

No, Hell has done a spectacular job of following her quite well in her mortal life. To her dismay, Hell teaches her some of the hardest and most trying lessons a mortal can learn. She will die as everyone she loves has; there is no truth more honest than this, she knows. And, while she’s learned this at a young age, she’d thought—at least—she could protect her new family better than her last. Hell is learning she can’t keep her adoptive family any safer than her biological. But the last time the Inferno greeted her it was different, for she hadn’t been the lone survivor—Eren had made it out with her, bruised and devastated, but he’d been alive. 

With Eren and Armin in the aftermath of losing her second family, she learns that Heaven exists with them as well. It comes in smaller packages and is often less noticeable, but it’s there. Sometimes it shows up in the form of a loaf of bread or a bed with a wool blanket. _Ironic_ , she thinks the first evening in the corps while looking upon a warm bowl of soup and fresh bread before her. How could she have known she’d find Heaven in a place about to send her to Hell? 

Heaven is also a roof over her head when it’s raining. It’s the security that she has a spot to call her own again. It’s the comfort of knowing Eren is, for the moment, safe while training—or so she thinks, anyway. Hell likes to remind her once in a while it still exists, too. 

Hell reminds her not to be too complacent or to let her guard down for too long. It reminds her of its presence by wiping Eren from her life in a single, giant mouthful. Armin’s tears look to her like small drops of hellfire and it’s all she can do to save him from the same fate that Eren met, to keep him safe from the monster that has followed her for years. And as she leans down to talk to Armin, to remind him to keep going, she’s thinking all the while of the monster that has its hold on her life. 

But Heaven is sweeter and more apathetic than Hell; it also, in its subtle ways, reminds her that it is around, too. The definition of Heaven to her is the sound of Eren’s heartbeat, loud, clear, and so very alive. Heaven is the relief of holding him in her arms and crying so loud she thinks she might burst; but surely that would never happen, for the stars are finally in her favor. 

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t the least bit scared of all the guns pointed at them, ready to fire at will with a single command. But she isn’t so scared she won’t stand up against them, because while Hell is at her feet, Heaven has her back; the monster that is the Inferno will not consume her.


	12. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a couple of things about this chapter!
> 
> First off, this was a prompt request from a FF.net user under the theme of family: The way the term 'family' changes between both Eren and Mikasa from children into adulthood. 
> 
> Secondly, I'll say this now since I haven't noted it anywhere, I am always up for requests/prompts (as long as it's understood I may take a while and length, etc. will vary!). So feel free to leave any requests through comments or on my tumblr! 
> 
> Lastly, when I got this request, I knew there was no way around making it anything but long.. But I like it and hope everyone who reads it does too! (So thank you for reading it and my little notes here!)

Mikasa feels lost.

Lost like a lamb that’s wandered too far from its herd—like a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest, or, appropriately, like a child who has no parents. In the days that follow her parents death, she follows Eren around his house, clinging to him like he’s a mama cat and she’s his kitten. In many ways, she feels like she’s been reborn, like she’s a new person altogether. 

She remembers how to do basic, daily things, like brush her hair and change her clothes. But in other ways, she finds, she doesn’t understand anything at all. Eren’s mom doesn’t cook food in the same way and she finds herself longing for the duck her father always brought home. Even simple things, like doing laundry, are no longer the same. (Her mother always hung clothes outside to dry, whereas the Yeager’s have a line running through their house.)

The Yeagers buy her new dresses and shoes. Grisha shows her how to treat small cuts with salves and they practice splinting and bandaging broken bones on injured animals. Kalura shows her how to cook different meats and use spices properly (some she recalls from her mothers own use but most are foreign and smell funny). She now remembers not to hang clothes too closely to the fire—something she’d regrettably learned the hard way by burning a shirt of Eren’s on accident. 

They also take her to her parent’s funeral, a small gathering consisting of the Yeager family, herself, and a priest. She surprises them all with her lack of tears; but, she thinks, they don’t see her when she’s alone, left with just her memories. She watches the urns full of ashes be placed into the ground, aware it is the last time she will see her parents in any form. She picks up dirt in her hand, rolls it between her fingers before gently sprinkling it down on the urns. Tears threaten, prickling at the corners of her eyes, but her composure holds; when she steps back, she’s aware of the heavy gazes that are settling on her.

The Yeagers never waiver in their kindness and support her as much as they possibly know how. They call her their daughter but never do they force names on her – they always leave it up to Mikasa on how she would like to address them. 

“Any name you feel is appropriate,” Kalura says to her one night over dinner, a bit out of the blue. “I don’t mean to put pressure on you…But you can call me and Grisha any name you feel like.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Yeager,” she says politely. She doesn’t know what else to say and stirs the soup in front of her aimlessly.

“Well, I still want to be called Eren,” Eren announces, kicking Mikasa under the table until she looks at him. “And you don’t have to call me your brother…But you can if you’d like!” 

“Thank you….Eren,” she says, a small smile making its way to her face. 

The nighttime is her favorite part of the day, when they’re lying down to rest. Eren’s space is fuller now; a new mattress for Mikasa is now pressed up against his own. His parents always fall asleep before either of them, their calm, even breathing from the other side of the room is a new lullaby for her, and an old one for Eren. 

When she sleeps, she dreams of her mother’s smile and father’s laugh. She feels their arms around her, engulfing her in warmth and love. In her dreams, they praise her for her strength and resilience, for her will to keep moving on. But whenever she opens her mouth to answer them, she always wakes; more often than not she finds herself pulling the blanket tighter to herself, trying to salvage the astral warmth of her parents arms. 

It’s when she wakes, in those moments of trying to lose herself in dreams again, that sometimes—only sometimes—she opens her bleary eyes. With no curtains on the window, she can often see the moonlight shining on Eren’s face, and her eyes often fixated on his expression. It surprises her that on most nights, his eyes are wide open, full of something akin to worry and thoughtfulness in one.

She wonders what his demons are, that keep him up at night. 

One night, many months after her parents’ deaths, she wakes up from a nightmare, from a dream of her father with a hole in his stomach and a bleeding wound on her mother’s head. She finds her pillow soaked with tears and, like always, she pulls the blanket up a little higher. When she shifts to look at Eren, she’s startled to see his large, green eyes staring at her. They remind her of cat’s— so expressive of his emotions and yet perfect for concealing his thoughts. 

“Was it a bad one this time?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper to avoid waking up his parents. She can scarcely bring herself to nod, embarrassed he’s seeing her like this, weak once more. Tugging the blanket up to her nose, she tries discretely to dry her face. Eren turns his body to face hers, his eyes like lanterns—bright and intuitive. 

“I see them, too,” he says. For a moment, she thinks he’s talking about her parents and wonders if he saw their bodies the way she had in their final moments. Did he see her father slumped over, her mother lifeless? But he continues, and adds, “those men. I see them every night before I sleep.” His demons, she realizes with guilt, are her fault. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she’s not sure if she’s apologizing for his dream, the memory, or both. 

“It’s not your fault.” His answer is immediate and oddly reassuring. He scoots closer to her side of the bed, tentatively holding out a hand to her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

With a bit of hesitation, Mikasa slips a hand out from her warm blanket, reaching for his own. She’s never had any kind of a sibling before and is clueless on how to go about treating Eren like one. She likes the weight of his palm in hers, the reassurance that he isn’t going to let go. When he inches a little closer, she finds herself relieved she won’t have to fall back asleep alone and scared, left with the awful vision of her mortally wounded parents. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her eyes growing heavy. “Thank you, Eren.”

“What are brothers for?” His answer is another quiet, hushed whisper, and it’s the last thing she hears before she gives way to sleep.

\----- 

When she wakes, she finds his fingers still entwined with hers, their clutches slack but still holding fast. She removes her hand, careful to avoid stirring him, and glances out the window. She can see it’s clearly late in the morning, but when she looks around, she doesn’t see Grisha or Kalura. There is, however, food on the table; an oatmeal of sorts with vegetables mixed in. Standing up and testing it with her finger proves it’s warm and she doubts they’ve been out long.

“They’re gone?” Eren’s voice says to her and she turns to look at him. His eyes are half-closed and he’s yawning, stretching his arms above his head, his shirt rising up a bit to show his stomach. His movements remind her vaguely of the curious cat she’d seen in him the night before. 

“Yes, but they left us breakfast.” She pulls out a chair and sits on it, picking up a spoon. She’s hungrier than she thought and, although the breakfast isn’t her favorite, it’s still better than nothing. (How long will it take for her to adjust to everything?) Eren pulls out a chair next to her, resting his chin on his palms and staring off at the wall. 

“My dad asked me to go into town today,” he finally says after some silence between them. She notes that he still hasn’t touched his food and seems more interested in his thoughts. “He said there’s a package waiting at the market, I just need to pick it up for him. I wonder if they went to town today? Why can’t they go get it?” 

Mikasa can hear the tone in his voice aching to spend the day off exploring and not treading through masses of people in town. She wonders if she’s invited to go with him and she twirls her spoon around in the oatmeal. “I…I wouldn’t mind coming with you,” she says. From the corner of his eye she sees him straighten and suddenly he seems excited, animated and ready for adventure. 

“You would? That’s great! Maybe we can stop and get Armin on the way, too! It doesn’t have to be a boring day after all! Maybe if we’re lucky Armin will bring out that old book again…” He picks up his spoon and begins eating at a much quicker pace than her. It’s comical and she finds herself laughing, relieved to have been allowed along and, for once in a long while, to feel normal again. She puts her spoon down and watches Eren, mimicking his earlier pose by placing her chin on her palms. 

This new brother of hers... she thinks she can call him family.

\----- 

She remembers very distinctly the first time she saw Eren naked. They were ten and playing in the river with Armin. Eren had taken off all his clothes, nudity none an issue to him – he’d rather flaunt himself around then risk a scolding from his mother about tattered, muddy clothes. He hadn’t thought twice to rip everything off, toss them over a bush, and hop into the river.

Armin, for his part, had been more modest. He’d looked at Mikasa with a small, nervous smile, and she had laughed, “I’ll turn around.” He couldn’t have looked more grateful if he’d tried. While she had her back turned, drawing figures in the dirt with a cracked tree branch, she heard Armin slip out of his clothes and lay them neatly over a low hanging branch before a loud slosh indicated he’d joined Eren. When she turned around, she saw the two of them splashing water with Eren attempting to make bigger waves than Armin. 

“Come in, Mikasa!” Eren had looked at her expectantly and she’d done nothing but shake her head and go back to drawing in the dirt with her back to them. 

“I’ll wait until you’re out,” she answered, careful to avoid getting dirt on her clothes as she doodled a particularly large picture. (With all the help she’d been giving Kalura in washing clothes lately, she’d found a new respect for attempting to keep them clean.) “Tell me when to turn around again.”

“Turn and look at me now!” Eren’s voice held the tone of a demanding, petulant child. 

When she’d turned to glance over at the two, she’d seen Armin’s head below the water, and he was clearly been hiding from something; he always hated being beneath the water, he was so scared of drowning. It had only taken her a moment to realize what he was trying to avoid witnessing as when her eyes kept wandering she finally saw Eren proudly standing on a rock, his body gleaming wetly in the sunlight. Her face had flushed a dark shade of red and she’d ducked her head down. “Eren!” 

It seemed to dawn on him too late the scenario. As he’d hastily jumped back into the water, his own face a matching cherry red, he had to remind himself that Mikasa was his sister—and therefore by default a _girl_ —and she did not posses the same anatomy as him.

“Ah… I’m really sorry!” There was little more he could have said in that moment.

“I’m going to go see if they need us back at home yet…” She’d walked away without saying goodbye, and neither of them had ever brought up the moment. 

This is the memory that comes to her when, at fifteen, she sees Eren after a particularly rough morning of practicing against Annie. He’s about to go take a shower and she’s lying on his bed in her pants and white shirt as she watches him remove clothes from his body. 

“I swear, they want to kill us before we even get out there.” He’s complaining while slipping off his jacket. He arches his back and she hears the soft pops, sees the sweat roll down his neck. While Eren certainly isn’t the most flexible or acrobatic among them, he still often reminds her of a cat, arching his body in as many angles as he can contort it.

“Extra training is necessary,” she says, pulling his pillow underneath her head, closing her eyes. She likes the scent of him, so distinctly masculine. “You should let me help you practice more.” 

“So you can toss me into the dirt again?” He turns his back to her as he slips off his shirt. “I’ll take you up on that offer soon, though. I’ll be able to flip you any day now, Annie will make sure of it.” 

“If you say so,” she answers, feeling herself grow lazy. It’s when she peeks her eyes open just a twinge that she sees the back of Eren in the nude; he’s clearly assumed her eyes would remain shut as he reached for a nearby towel. She’s surprised by the flush that reaches her cheeks and she’s reminded of the day so many years ago when she’d unintentionally seen the rest of him, too. 

“Mikasa? I’m going to go shower, okay?” He steps closer to her, seeming momentarily concerned. “Are you getting sick?” Despite her shaking her head, he presses his palms to her forehead. His hands are warm, radiating heat from earlier. 

“Take a nap while I go shower. The last thing anyone needs is for the Survey Corps best ma—woman to be out of commission.” He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and—for a brief moment—she imagines he does so with more than brotherly affection. There’s a tinge of disappointment in her at his words that surprises her—had she expected him to say that _he_ needed her to be well, for him? How unrealistic and unreasonable. Of course the corps needed her (she hadn’t ranked top without reason, after all), but she’d hoped to hear something else in his words, something that implied, just for a moment, she was more than his figurative sister. 

As she watches him go she sighs loudly and says, “Yes, what would the survey corps do without me?”

\----- 

It’s getting late. Both of them aware they need to go back before they’re missed, but all Eren can focus on is the pretty song Mikasa is singing (has she always been able to carry a tune?) and the fingers she’s threading through his hair. Her voice carries through the wind and he tugs his jacket closer to his body. There’s a gentle, rhythmic soothing way about the pads of her fingers pressing against his scalp. He’s started to doze when he feels her raise his hand and he opens his eyes to look up at her.

“When did you get this cut? Did you try to fight Jean again? This one looks really deep.” She’s observing his hand with such keen interest that she misses the way his eyes aren’t looking at his hand but are instead focused on her with newfound wonder. He notices the way she tucks stray hair behind her ear, the way her eyes have narrowed to focus on his injury, and the way her lips are cracked from the dry weather. 

He wonders, for a brief moment, if her lips against his would feel as chapped as they look. It’s this peculiar thought that brings a rise of color to his cheeks and he’s thankful she isn’t looking at his face to see it. 

“Of course it wasn’t Jean! Do you really think I would let him hurt me?” His attempts at sounding dignified are in vain, for Mikasa shifts to look at him with a raised, quizzical brow. If she notices the flush on his skin she says nothing. 

“I’ve told you to stop going against Annie in fights.” She huffs for a second before raising his hand again. Her hand holding his is dried out and calloused, rough to the touch – just like her lips, if he had to surmise. His throat runs dry as he watches her tongue lick her lower lip, no doubt an attempt to relieve the chapped feeling; he hardly realizes when his thumb reaches out to swipe across the same lip in a mimicking fashion. 

Her hand holding his tenses and when she shifts her eyes to look at him, he no longer sees _sister_ but instead _girl_ —no, _woman_. When had she stopped being the sister who finished his fights and instead started to be a woman with soft features and tired face? The breeze picks up and causes her neatly tucked hair to fall astray but she doesn’t seem to take notice; her curious gaze is on him and he resists the urge to fix it for her. 

“Your lips… they look like they hurt,” he says finally. 

“It must be from the weather,” she answers, laying his hand down with caution. She turns her eyes away from his and he feels her fingers begin to play with his hair once more. If asked, he could never name what compelled him to act next; it simply felt natural to consider his actions for only a moment before leaning up to kiss her. 

It’s a tense, awkward, and plainly uncomfortable moment for the both of them; he knows she hadn’t expected it any more than he had. He pulls away first and rather quickly, having received no response from her. It was a huge mistake, he thinks, to kiss the girl he calls his sister. Her eyes are still peering down at his but he doesn’t see repulsion or disgust like he’d expected; instead, he sees the little girl with wide eyes who sometimes woke from nightmares. 

“I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have…” His words sound heavy and he starts to sit himself up when she gently—but firmly—tugs his hair again to pull his head down to her lap. 

“It’s okay,” she says and although her words are meant to reassure him, he hears the quiver in them. “You didn’t do anything.” 

He’s trying to place why her words ring a bell before he recalls saying the exact same phrase to her when she had woken up one night. He relaxes back into her fingers, feels her body become less tense. He does this knowing they’re going to be scolded and even potentially made to run laps when they get back, but he can’t seem to muster up the strength to leave. Besides, the survey corps would certainly never truly discharge them; after all—she’s worth a hundred men and women. Besides, isn’t he their best weapon?

\----- 

After their first kiss, they share many; sometimes at the risk of getting caught with quick pecks in passing, or others that are more leisurely and languid and discrete, like in fields of flowers or at night when it’s raining to cover the sound. Eren doesn’t think he can be any happier and even Jean’s obnoxious questions (“What the hell has gotten into you? Did a titan hit you when we weren’t looking?”) seem to roll off of him. He surprises Mikasa in small ways, like leaving her flowers laced into her scarf or tucked into her pillow. He never sees her wear them and she never verbally thanks him; he only knows she’s received them when they’re alone at night and she kisses him with a smile that reaches her eyes.

He loves her, this he knows; it also scares him to know that this makes her his biggest weakness. He can’t afford weaknesses when they’re fighting titans. He tells her as much one night, hesitantly broaching the topic on evening outdoors by saying, “You could get hurt. It might be better for us both to not have to worry about each other more than we already do.” 

At first, he doesn’t know what to make of her laugh, full of irony. When she turns her head to look at him, her eyes sad and teasing, she says, “Have I not already risked my life for you a thousand times? What’s another thousand?” 

It’s true, he thinks. His hand reaches out to touch the scar on her cheek, the one he’d unintentionally left on her skin as a titan. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, though knows it’s a worthless apology at this point; is he apologizing for the times he’s endangered her already or for all the times he knows he will in the future?

“Didn’t I say you’d die without me around?” Her hand, smaller but stronger than his, reaches up to rest atop his own. He knows it should be him reassuring her—not the other way around—but she sounds so sure, so serious. He knows she will die for him if need be and it pains him to think she’d so willingly toss her life aside for his. His life, which to him, has much lesser value than hers. Should he die before killing all titans, he wouldn’t want her to waste her life moping around because of him—she has far too much passion left in her for that.

“If I die,” he says, feeling her face crease with concern beneath his fingers, “then continue without me. Promise, okay? Kill them all for me, every single one of them.” He’s looking into her eyes and he sees her apprehension. It’s a lot to ask of her, he knows, this begging to keep herself safe and sane should he die while also wanting her to complete his own personal mission. It’s selfish of him to ask because he knows without a doubt she’ll do it. 

“I promise,” she says, so quietly that the wind almost whisks her words away. It’s subtle and he almost misses the way she turns her head to kiss at his fingers, pressing her lips to the palm of his hand. 

“Because you love me?” His voice is light, an attempt to lift the dark mood that has settled across her normally stoic features. 

“Because I love you,” she answers, bringing the tip of his pointer finger between her lips before biting it with enough pressure to make him squirm. She’s teasing him now, aware that her actions will spark fireworks in his stomach. 

He only vaguely recalls the following hour spent in a rush of half-undone clothes and kisses. So blatant are their actions he’s sure they’ll be caught; alas, he finds it hard to care when her lips are in places he’s only ever touched himself.

\-----

“There’s still a lot of titans out there, you know,” Eren tells her one night as they’re sitting on the roof of the barracks. Their hands are entwined, the only touch between them.

“I’m not stupid. I know that, Eren,” she answers back. “It was just a suggestion.”

“A _stupid_ one,” he says harshly, almost immediately regretting the severity of his words as her hand withdraws. “Mikasa…” His voice takes on a tone meant to placate her, but it’s too late and he can’t rescind his words. 

“You’re not really in a position to call me stupid.” Despite her words attempting to mock him, he can hear the underlying hurt. Perhaps if he hadn’t said it with a tone of such finality she would’ve brushed it off like always, as used to his typically brash words as she is.

“It’s really not that stupid,” he says, a sigh drifting past his lips as he follows her gaze to the moon. She’s intentionally avoiding looking at his face, that much he knows, and guilt pools in his stomach. “It’s not stupid to want a life outside of the corps. It isn’t stupid that you asked if I wanted more from my life. But you know I’m not stopping until I’ve completed my promise.”

As time lapses between them he considers repeating or rephrasing his words, for she has done little to acknowledge his statement to her aside from a slight tilt to her head. When she does answer, it’s a brief, concise statement, worded carefully: “You’re right, it isn’t stupid. It’s only stupid that I want more with you outside the corps.” 

Their relationship, both romantically and in regards to their friendship, is forged from years of understanding, built-up trust and intimacy. It is a fragile, delicate scale that they’re constantly trying to balance. Mikasa worries about it crumbling and breaking from the weight of stress more than Eren does; he’s always so confident that life can repair itself. She knows he never considers the possibility of the scale broken for good. 

“It’s not stupid,” Eren repeats, observing that the moon seems oddly closer this night than normal. “I told you a long time ago not to follow me here.” 

“In another life, maybe we could’ve been normal,” she answers, brushing off his last comment; she’s not interested in a life of things she could’ve (should’ve) done. When her head tilts a bit more to finally catch his eyes, there’s a small smile gracing her features, a cross between melancholy and adoration. “I bet we’d marry in a church and have a dog or two. I’d have a garden and you’d have room full of books for you and Armin. And…and kids. We’d have children. We’d be _normal_ , Eren. ” 

Her last few sentences are said in a whisper, drifting up into the sky, and although Eren knows his face is red and flushed, she seems surprisingly calm. It seems likely to him that she’s had these thoughts before and he wonders how long she’s harbored these wants. He feels selfish for having never considered the possibility of marriage—to her or anyone—despite the obvious fact it’s something she desires and has pushed aside for him. (What other things in life has she not told him she wishes for?) 

“You want to marry me?” His voice comes out as a surprised squeak and adds to his already evident embarrassment. Of all the things to say, it’s the only one he can make sense of easiest. Dealing with any of those other _what if’s_ is just too much for the time being.

“Maybe in another life I can.” Her smile against the night is bright and teasing; it’s prettier than the stars above her. Her hand finds his again and he notes that it’s chilled. They should’ve brought extra clothes or grabbed a blanket. 

“Why not this one?” The question from his lips startles even him but comes out with such clarity and confidence that she raises a brow at him, seemingly unsure now if he’s being serious or simply toying with her. 

“Would you say yes even if I asked?” Her eyes are no longer on him, back up at the moon, and she crosses her legs together. There’s a touch of anxiety in the way she starts to drum her fingers against his, a subtle nervous tick that he wouldn’t have noticed at all if she weren’t touching him. 

“I guess you won’t know till you ask.” His words come out cautiously, pronounced with thought and care, as though each word were a child to be cradled. His eyes are fixedly on her, hoping she’ll spare him a glance again. 

Mikasa lets the silence extend between her and him once more before she asks into the air, seemingly to no one in particular, “Will you marry me?” 

He supposes it’s only natural, the color that comes to his face, but still he looks away from her in a shy, almost sheepish way (despite the fact that she _still isn’t looking at him_ and he vaguely wonders if women feel the way he currently does when proposed to). He follows her gaze upwards to the night, still dark and impending but somehow seeming a little more welcoming than it had earlier. The chill has not left them but he’s surprisingly warmer than he had been ten minutes prior. There’s a new, fresh heat to her hand on his and he suspects she’s feeling similarly, despite her outwardly calm demeanor. 

“Yes, I will,” he replies, his voice coming out hoarse and choked, so he repeats himself more firmly: “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

While he expects her to finally look at him still she does not; the only indication that she’s even alive in the way her eyes blink and how, noticeably, her fingers have tightened their grip on his hand. After a few seconds he’s about to call her name and demand she look at him because _god dammit he’s agreed to marry her can’t she at least look at him?_ when she finally, _finally_ turns her head to him and smiles, so bright and wide it puts the moon to shame. 

“In this life?” Her voice doesn’t reach the same volume of excitement as her face and he understands she’s looking for confirmation that he’s promising her to be true to his word.

“Of course in this life, what other life do I have?” He can’t help the hesitation in his words as he starts, “But only after…”

“After the titans,” she finishes, though she doesn’t sound so disappointed; he’s sure she knew the stipulation would be there even before she’d asked and he’d agreed. With a few subtle scooting motions, she’s next to him, the side of her body pressed against his arm as she leans in to kiss his cheek. 

When she says, “I love you, Eren Yeager,” with a tickle of breath against his face, even he can’t keep the smile from his lips. 

He stands, pulling her up with him, as he says, “Let’s go, we’ve got a lot of titans to kill then, Mrs. Yeager.” When she ducks her head, color finally finding its way to her face, he doesn’t try to resist the urge to kiss her. He steals her lips with the ease of familiarity; somehow, he’s sure they’ll have many more evenings full of kisses under the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few more comments:
> 
> Did anyone catch the Mulan reference with Eren on the rock? Because that was intentional and I couldn't help myself. 
> 
> Also, the requester asked that Mikasa ask Eren to marry him, but I didn't want to put that in the beginning and give it all away!


	13. Anatomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have about four one-shots started at varying lengths and this is somehow the one that won out first. It's really mostly just PWP, under a guest request of "something smutty between Eren and Mikasa in the tub".
> 
> So, just to reiterate, this is basically a chapter of solely _mature content_.

“This water is too hot,” Eren complains, his right foot inside the bubble bath with his left being used to keep his balance on the outside. 

“Well, you weren’t really invited in the first place,” Mikasa replies, splashing water up her arms. Her short hair is left down, its tips lightly skimming the waters edge as she leans down to hide more of herself underwater. She picks up bubbles between her fingers and blows, watching them fly off her fingers and land back into the water. With a weary expression she adds, “Are you sure there’s enough room for you in here?” 

“We’ll make it work,” Eren replies, seeming unbothered by the clear implication that his girlfriend wants to bathe alone. He eyes her for a moment before glancing at the remaining space. He deduces one clear, obvious fact: He will not fit in the tiny space that is left. He also, therefore, concludes there is only one viable option left: He will simply have to place her on his lap. 

In an attempt to be nonchalant that does not fool Mikasa, Eren removes his foot and casually walks to her side of the tub. He does not miss the way that, though her body has not shifted, her eyes certainly have; from her peripheral vision, she’s clearly watching him closely. For a moment he thinks she’s being rather selfish—he shares everything with her, could she not share her bath with him, just this once? But the thought passes quickly as he attempts to be suave and sleek by grabbing her under her arms to lift her. 

It is unfortunate that she weighs more than he’s calculated and she plops back down into the water with an irritated, “What the hell, Eren?”

“Mika,” he whines, leaning close to her ear, still outside the tub. “Sit on my lap?”

“I hate that nickname and no. I told you earlier I didn’t think there was enough room.” She’s still playing in the bubbles and he realizes that she’s creating rather large, puffy, white breasts for herself. He forces himself to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. While he certainly adores her smaller breasts, he has to admit the thought of her a few cup sizes bigger is rater titillating. 

“Please,” he begs, leaning in close to her ear and lowering his voice in what he hopes comes off as seductive. “I’ll make it worth it, I promise.” 

“You do realize the last time you said that you came before you even got it in?” She adds extra padding to her fake breasts. “So your offer doesn’t really hold much credibility in my court. Sorry.”

“That sounds like a very insincere apology. Anyway, you’d been teasing me all night, that wasn’t my fault.” Eren feels the pout forming on his lips before he tries once more, lips curling before he’s even spoken because he knows very well she’ll understand his next reference. “And I’ll do that _thing_ I haven’t done in a while.” 

Her ears perk and she turns to him, intrigued, bubbles forgotten. He can see her debating if receiving something she particularly likes is outweighed by her extreme dislike of sharing her bath. 

“Fine,” she says after a moment. “I’m holding you to your word.” Which she’d already said she discredited, but he had more to lose than her by not following through. She sighed before standing up, careful to avoid spilling water over the edge (because, no doubt, the entire cleanup would be left to her per usual) to make room for Eren. 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he answers before sliding in to where she’d been moments before. He spreads his legs a bit to make room for her, though the tub is so cramped he figures he may as well have not tried at all. 

It takes some time before he feels the stiffness ease from her back, her body taking it’s time to melt against his with help from the warm water; he can barely feel her skin against his, though she’s flush against him. She sighs once more, though this time from clear contentment and, as her breathing begins to even out, he realizes she’s falling asleep—that certainly won’t do. He wiggles his hips beneath her just so, knowing she’ll feel him against her backside; he’s not yet hard but he knows that’s certainly subject to change. 

“Can’t I have a moment to enjoy the water? This is what I was going to do before you decided to invite yourself.” Her tone holds no real contempt for she’s far too relax, her body lazily splayed out above his in the water. She wants to turn and curl into him, let him wrap his arms around her, but then her legs will be above water, and she’d prefer to be warm than held. 

“No,” Eren replies, glancing around the dimmed bathroom. “You have enough candles in here to set the entire apartment on fire if one fell. Why do girls need candles to take a bath, anyway? Can’t you just turn on the light?”

“You’re really ruining my moment.” More words are poised on her tongue till she realizes one of his pointer fingers is idly drawing circles around her breasts, tracing their outline, occasionally going upwards to gently tweak at her slowly hardening nipples.

She closes her mouth and once more sighs, murmuring, “I hope you’re not expecting me to do all the work.”

“Only some,” he promises, unable to keep the playful tone from his voice. He doesn’t miss the way her body softens above him, sinking more and more into him, into the water. The hand tracing her breasts makes its way up, up, up, till he’s beneath her chin and gently he pushes it upwards; she follows the indirect command easily, tilting her head to the side, curious as to what his intentions are. When his head leans down, hair tickling her cheek, she smiles; it’s so subtle he almost misses it. 

When his lips connect with her neck, he purses them, kissing the vein beneath and whispers, “Jugular.”

“Didn’t we agree you’d leave being a doctor at the hospital?” 

“Hush,” is all he says before kissing the spot once more. His lips slide over a tiny bit and he places another kiss down. “Carotid.” 

As his lips kiss around her neck, he stops at the base behind, adds, “Spine,” and continues his exploration.

These are parts of her body he knows well—he’s had four years to learn them, after all—but every now he tries to look at her with new eyes and a fresh perspective, tries to see her in new ways he hadn’t seen before. When his lips touch the side of her head he murmurs, “Temple.” He glances down and sees that her eyes are half open, a sure sign of her contentment.

She can’t see his hands beneath the bubbles, can only feel when they begin to trace new circles around her bellybutton. She wills him to go lower, to tease her just a bit _down there_ , but instead his fingers inch down to scrape gently at her hipbone, his nails digging into the skin. In easy, languid motions his fingers continue their voyage, traveling to skim over the top of her thigh; his body leans forward to reach farther down to her knee before scraping back up with blunt nails. 

“Tease,” she breathes, intentionally mimicking his earlier actions by rocking her body against him. She’s certain he’s noticed he’s hard by now, stiff between the cheeks of her bottom; he’d have to be an idiot to not notice it about himself. But, much to her surprise, he’s ignoring himself (for once, she notes with a bit of selfishness) in favor of her. His fingers inch back up and ghost over the part of her she wants touched most; it’s smooth and soft, waxed only a few days prior. 

Eren loves all parts of Mikasa, even her temper and bouts of moodiness, but loves her most when she’s malleable putty in his hands. He knows what she wants and smiles as he presses his mouth to her ear, his thumb caressing her for the briefest moment as he whispers, “Clitoris.” 

There’s a hitch in her breath, a quick jerk of her legs that causes water to slosh over the edge. The touch is far too light and airy for her liking. “Don’t be an ass.” His hands are wandering around, touching the inside of her thigh but never straying close enough to where she’s slowly starting to ache. 

Eren doesn’t attempt to resist the smile that spreads wider yet over his face and he presses a kiss to the side of her lips. It’s satisfying to know that with her body above his, her back and ass pressed firmly into him, is still trying to arch back and guide him. He’s hard—ridiculously so, in fact—but it’s always quite entertaining to tease her till she’s near begging. 

“You could say that nicer, you know…” His fingers skim closer and he grazes her outer lips between her thighs and says, “Labia.” 

“It’s really not a turn on with you—” Another sharp intake of breath, a thrash of legs. 

“You were saying?” He assumes it’s the fingers he’s slipped inside her that’s caused her reaction and he laughs quietly to himself. “You know, I’d say you seem pretty wet, but…” 

“Not funny.” Her voice attempts to regain it’s composure but the intent is lost as squirms against his fingers, aiming to get them deeper. Instead, she feels him curl his fingers upward and his thumb begin to rub in gentle, languid circles against the small, sensitive nub that draws more breaths and soft, restrained moans from her. 

She knows he’s now doing it primarily for one reason, and is hardly surprised when, after a few minutes of her writhing against him and his fingers, he says, “I think you’re ready now….”

“No,” she replies, saying this because she knows it means moving and therefore causing some of the warm water to no longer be around her. (If she’s honest, she’s more than ready for more of him and not just his fingers.)

“Oh well, I’m not really asking.” With an easy, fluid motion he removes his fingers and props her up; the cold air hits her hard and her body stiffens. Eren does not miss the opportunity to tweak her nipples, chilled from the air. She’s still not facing him, though it hardly matters, for he’s already got a position in mind sure to benefit them both. 

Mikasa rolls her hips against him once more, growing impatient from waiting, wanting to be back in the water once more. She doesn’t particularly need to be told what to do, already aware of the position he’s trying to maneuver her in to. When she feels his hands beneath her bottom, lifting her up, she complies and helps with a loud, intentionally dramatic sigh. 

“Remember what I promised?” He shifts himself beneath her, positions her above him. “Now it’s okay…Go down slow.” 

In an act of what Eren assumes is defiance, Mikasa does anything but, initially sliding down slow to assure he’s in properly before quickly lowering herself the rest of the way. He wants to almost be mad—it feels so good when she goes tantalizingly slow—but he can hardly be upset; he’s all the way in when she rolls her hips, rocks against him. She knows perfectly well how to make him cum fast and it’s obvious to him it’s her goal—make him cum quick and pull out to get to her favorite part. Instead, he holds her hips and pulls her back with ease, lowing her back to his chest, mindful to stay inside her. 

“Better.” It’s easier to toy with her chest this way, both of his hands reaching up to cup a breast, kneading in an even rhythm. “Move your hips a little…” 

He knows she wants to retort with a comment, though he supposes the way he pinches a nipple—firmly and with enough pressure to cause a whine to seep past her lips—has something to do with her change of heart. She rolls her hips, mindful to go slow to keep him in (they last time they’d tried this position in bed, he’d repeatedly kept sliding out, much to his dismay). For the moment, he lets her take control, his head falling back against the walls of the shower behind him, hands still on her chest.

When her hips start making small, concise circles that eventually fan out into larger ones, he thinks that this is certainly how her athletic body should be used more often; it’s always so much more fun to worship her up close than afar. His hips rise up, wanting her to cause more friction, but she’s going achingly slow now, a contradiction to her earlier actions. She knows what she’s doing and certainly is not going to let him off easy. 

“You seem like you’re getting there,” she sighs, reaching to a hand on her breast and bringing it down to caress the small bump that sent tremors through her. She grabs the other and placed it firmly on her hip. 

“Would be there sooner if you’d go faster,” he replies, obliging her silent request, his thumb pressing down in waves of fast, slow, fast, fast, slow. He knew he was doing it right when her pace quickened, when he could feel the tightness building in his abdomen. The pressure eases only after he’s released, quite loudly and with her name parting from his lips repeatedly. The hand against her hip grips it tightly, nails leaving crescents against her skin. She’s stopped moving, beginning to rise herself off of him when it appears he’s coming to once more. 

Eren can’t help but notice the show she’s making of turning around to straddle him, a contented, pleased smirk on her face. She leans down to kiss him, words a whisper as she says, “Don’t forget your promise.” 

He takes the chance to meet her halfway, giving her a kiss much too chaste for their current position. “You’re going to have to get off of me and out of the tub. And don’t grab a towel.” 

She didn’t make any noise of complaint, though Eren suspected it was due mostly to her finally getting what she really wanted out of the night, out of his promise. She slid off of him easily enough, careful as she placed a foot on the rug near the tub to avoid slipping. When she’d stepped out she turned to look at him expectantly, watched as he pulled the plug up to drain the water. When he finally turned to look at her, a telltale smirk now on his face, she didn’t both to try to hide the flush that rushed through her—it has certainly been far too long since he’s looked at her that way. 

He steps out of the draining water, his feet landing on the mat where hers had been previously. He pulls her close, flushes her body against his, and takes her hands into his. “I’m going to put your hands on the rack. Don’t move them, or I stop. Deal?” 

“That wasn’t what we agreed on earlier.” It bothers her the way her voice comes out whinier than she’d intended. 

“You’ll have to trust me, then, won’t you?” 

Their bathroom is far too hot and small for any actions beyond its intended purpose, but those small, minor setbacks don’t prevent anything: Mikasa holds onto the bar as instructed, waiting with false patience for Eren to hold up his end of their bargain. Eren doesn’t bother to attempt to hide the smirk on his face—with her body and gaze facing the wall and him behind her, he knows she won’t see it, anyway. 

“I can now determine with my intelligent mind that you are, in fact, wet,” he teases, slipping a hand between her legs. 

“We just got out of the bath.” It’s a point she feels compelled to make.

He assumes her tone is meant to sound stern but finds it holds no real contempt; she’s melting into his hands and arching willingly into his palm, into the fingers that are making their way inside her. 

“Remember the last time we did this you broke the bar from holding it too tight?” His tone is mildly conversational and it irks her—he should be focusing more on his fingers toying with her than holding a conversation. 

“I forgot, but thanks for—ah!—reminding me,” she replies, her skin flushing as she feels him part her cheeks. She knows what’s coming—he promised her favorite thing, after all—but the act still causes her mild embarrassment; his mouth between her legs is kryptonite. 

“My pleasure,” he replies, leaning in close to her, his tongue parting out to swipe for a second. His lips curl once more. “Va—”

“You say it and I’m going to punch you into the wall.” 

He laughs, his mouth so close to her opening she feels the vibration. Shivers tickle her spine and she doesn’t realize the way she leans back into him more, grazing his lips. She thinks for a moment he’ll make another irksome comment, instead finding herself pleasantly surprised as he tongues her once again. Years of practice between the two of them have made them sufficiently adept at pleasing the other, his tongue tracing a memorized path, methodically ( _expertly_ ) teasing her outside before snaking inside.

Mikasa’s aware her voice is rising, that sounds she wouldn’t normally make are leaving her throat, but she doesn’t quite care and besides—the more Eren thinks she’s appreciating it the more enthusiasm he’ll put into it. 

It’s with a curve of his tongue inside her and a soft caressing outside that builds her up, up, up; her eyes close and her grip on the bar tightens, the skin on her knuckles whitening. 

“Eren… Close…” Her back arches, attempting to fall more into his mouth.

“Then cum.” His voice is a notch above a whisper, a hum intended for her to feel; his lips purse and he sucks lightly, feels her body tense and unwind within moments of each other. Her voice—his name—echoes, the spasms from her body almost unnoticeable. (She’s sure she hears him say _climax_ in there somewhere, but she can’t be so sure.) When her knees grow weak he catches her in his arms, peppers her face with kisses. 

He can feel her body becoming heavy, lazy from the orgasm, and he sets her down to retrieve a towel from the rack she’d been holding, laughing at the way she’s unstable on her feet for a brief second. He wraps it around her shoulders, more to keep her warm than dry, as most of the water from their earlier bath has come off. He reaches behind her knees and hoists her up—not an easy task, as her muscle mass certainly outweighs his. 

“Where are we going?” It’s the first sentence she’s spoken to him after, said in a drawl that indicates she wants nothing more than to go to sleep. 

“Think it’s time for bed,” he replies, carrying her across the hall and into their room. 

“Wash your face first, you’re all dirty again…” 

“But we didn’t really wash in the first place…” He feels her nuzzle into his neck and knows she hasn’t heard a word. 

Before he sets her down he feels her lips against his neck, biting with a surprising amount of care; he knows there will be a dark bruise later he’ll have to make an excuse for, but it’s rare for her to intentionally do something so obvious. He can’t help but think she must be thoroughly pleased to show such affection. She’s naked still when he lays her down, though by the time he’s come back from grabbing her a pair of pajamas she’s already asleep, tucked soundly beneath their comforter. 

He sighs before setting the pajamas on the nightstand and leaning down to kiss her. She stirs for only a moment, her head turning away. She doesn’t feel him leave a trail of kisses down her jaw and neck, stopping only at her chest to murmur, “Heart.”


	14. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this reached over 100 kudos, thank you so much everyone!

When Eren rolls over and reaches for Mikasa, he’s surprised to find her side of the bed empty. The room is cold and a quick glance to the clock reveals it’s nearly half-past seven and he wonders where she could possibly be so early. When his eyes skim around their bedroom and he sees the lights are all off, questions start to rise. He’s still waking up and far too tired to play a game of _Where in the World is Mikasa Ackerman?_ but he does so anyway, because, despite his exhaustion, she’s worth it and he wants to know—curiosity killed the cat, or so the saying goes.

His hands reach over the side of the bed and begin to grope blindly at the wooden floor beneath their bed, fishing around for his shirt that Mikasa had pulled off of him with haste the night before. When he finds it, he slips it on and yawns loudly before standing, stretching his body, shuffling out of their bedroom with slow, tired steps. 

Their small apartment is dark, although Eren realizes it’s more from the shadow of the rain clouds outside than from a lack of sunlight. Standing in the hall, a bit clueless as to where to check first, he heads to the bathroom. The light is off but he turns it on for a moment anyway, seeing splashes of water around the edges of the sink. He touches her toothbrush with his thumb and, strangely, it’s dry. He shakes his head, ignoring the onset of even more questions, and makes his way to their kitchen. 

This light, however, is on. He can see a pot of coffee freshly brewed, mostly full and waiting to be finished off. He supposes it’s habit for both of them to make an excess amount, as they tend to make enough for each of them and then some, sharing it much like everything else in their lives. He switches off the light, yawns once more, and continues to their living room, the last room in the tiny place they call home. 

Although he expected her to be there, it still surprises him to see her sitting on the loveseat next to the window. He considers drawing her attention to him, thinks about saying her name, but instead chooses to watch the way she flips through a book on her lap, as though searching for something, an answer lost between the pages. She’s wearing a large grey sweater and sweatpants, the red scarf he’d given her last Christmas tightly wrapped around her neck and nose; he notices she’s wearing his wool socks and he considers asking for them back before deciding against it and acknowledging they look better on her, anyway. 

She reaches for her cup of coffee resting on the windowsill without looking and nearly spills it on herself and her book. Eren can’t help the chuckle that seeps out of him as he watches her fumble; she’s normally so composed that seeing her in moments of normality is almost strange to him, despite the almost-three years they’ve been together. It draws her attention to him and she smiles, albeit it with a bit of color to her cheeks. 

“You saw that, didn’t you?” She closes her book, but not before dog-earing the page. “Why are you up?”

“Of course I did and it was hilarious,” he answers, taking a few steps towards her. “And I was about to ask you that same question. It’s only seven thirty, I’m pretty sure you should still be in bed. And by that I mean, you should still be in bed and sleeping with me.” 

She opens her mouth to answer before closing it with a sigh, turning her gaze to the window. It’s clear to him something is bothering her, distracting her and keeping her restless. It hasn’t escaped him the way she seems more absorbed in her own thoughts lately and when he glances down at the cover of the book, he notes it’s a history book of sorts. 

“Where did you get the book?” he asks, drawing her attention back to him. 

“Library,” she answers, setting it at her feet. She scoots over a little, closer to the window, silently inviting him to join her. 

Eren hadn’t initially wanted the loveseat so close to the window—he argued it would be more useful closer to their television—but she’d looked outside their window with such longing and had acquiesced so easily to his demands that guilt had eaten at him for days until the loveseat was delivered. Upon its arrival, he had requested to the movers that they place it as close to the window as possible; her smile of surprise and shock had been worth giving up a tiny bit of comfort for his sports programs. 

And now, as he joins her on their loveseat, he thinks for a moment that she had made the right call in wanting it by the window: a drizzle has started and the few early risers heading off to work are pulling out umbrellas while cars and taxis drive by to unknown locations. Sometimes, when their favorite programs aren’t on and they’re too tired to go out, they sit and recreate the lives of people who pass by. He always finds Mikasa’s stories for all the people to be so emotional and overwhelming, as though she puts a part of her soul into every weaved story; it doesn’t surprise him, as she always gives pieces of herself away into everything she does. 

“When did you even have time for that?” He goes to lie down next to her and extends an arm, pleased when she curls up on top of him and wraps her arms loosely around him. She’s taking up less space and now he can drape his legs over the armrest. He folds both arms around her as though to absorb her and he feels the smile on her face against his collarbone. He’s still tired, but it isn’t so bad being able to hold her and rest elsewhere. “You’ve been up to something lately.” 

Her shoulders give a noncommittal shrug that neither answers his question nor confirms or denies his statement. 

“Just tell me. I can try to help with whatever is clearly on your mind,” he says. With a bit of prodding, he’s sure she’ll tell him. It always comes down to a combination of the correct words and right amount of begging. 

Time begins to lapse between them, quiet and endless, and he feels his eyes grow heavy. Her warm body has just begun to lull him to sleep when she says, “I have dreams.” 

“About what?” His voice is heavy with sleep and he shakes himself a bit in an attempt to rouse himself up once more. 

“Monsters,” she murmurs into his neck, her voice a soft vibration against him, muffled more so by the raised edge of the scarf that loops around her slender throat. “Monsters that look like humans. Sometimes they’re small but others are so big, they could crush us with a single foot. Their arms and legs don’t match… Their mouths are wide and they’re always reaching for something.” She holds onto his waist and sighs a loud puff of air that tickles his neck. 

Eren considers her words, opens his eyes lazily to glance down at her form, and says, “What do you think they’re reaching for?”

“Me,” she answers, then adds, “and anyone else who happens to be in my dream.” 

Unsure of what to make of her dreams, Eren feels a bit lost, unsure of how to answer her. His eyes fixate on the window behind her and he notes with mild interest that the rain has picked up. “What do you think would happen if they finally reached someone?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “They feel so real but I can’t recall seeing them anywhere… I thought maybe if I looked into some older history books I would find something.” 

“But you’ve found nothing.” Eren reaches his hand around and runs his fingers through her hair, his blunt nails scratching gently at her scalp. “They’re just dreams. Unnerving and weird, but not real at all.”

“I think they were, though,” she says. “Do you ever feel like you lived a life before this?”

Eren laughs despite himself and shakes his head. He slides his hands from her head to her back, trailing his nails underneath her shirt to draw shapeless patterns. She’s not wearing a bra and he wonders what his chances are of being able to convince her to come back to bed at that moment are. “No, I can’t imagine living another life. This one is stressful enough as it is. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” 

Mikasa bites down on her tongue, wanting to say more on the topic but feeling exceedingly ridiculous as the conversation goes on. Eren doesn't understand and she can hardly blame him. He isn't the one having dreams of friends and family being hunted down by inexplicable creatures. She places a kiss against his neck before drawing her scarf up further over her mouth and nose. “I’m fine. Let’s go back to bed?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Eren replies, scooting himself out from underneath her. He tugs her hand to pull her up, leaning in to kiss her cheek softly. He’s holding her hand and leading her back to their room when he says, “Imagine that, a life where we’re running away from being eaten by giants.” 

“Yes,” Mikasa answers, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes glancing out the window once more before they leave. The rain has begun to pour, though Eren has not noticed. “Imagine that.”


	15. Siren

On Saturday night, Mikasa crawls through his window, a beautiful pile of tangled limbs. Eren knows he should tell her to go home, to come back tomorrow when it’s daylight. Her parents will be livid in the morning to find she’s not in her bed and he doesn’t want to begin to imagine the lecture he will ( _yet again_ ) receive when his parents open his door to say good morning and find their bodies entwined. (His parents love her—in fact, have often said they would adopt her if they could—but don’t particularly want the two twenty-year-olds sleeping together in the same bed.)  

Tonight she’s in tight jeans and a simple white tank top, her hands holding matching white flats. “Your grass is wet, they’d get muddy,” she says when he asks why she isn’t wearing them. He’s about to point out that instead of her shoes being dirty it’s now her feet, but she’s already wiping them on the oval rug near his bed and he finds it would be pointless to mention it. Without much discretion to his room and her surroundings, she drops the flats next to his bed.

She unbuttons her pants and slides them off, folding them neatly and placing them on his desk before climbing into bed with him. He tries hard not to stare at the white ribbon bow on the front of her underwear, tries not to let his mind wander to what’s beneath the thin piece of clothing.

As she’s laying on her side, eyes turned to him, he takes her in; he looks at her pretty almond eyes and inhales the scent of Mary Jane and tobacco, laced with the scent of a party she’s just come from that he will never know the events of. Her lips arch into a smile, curling a little at the corners. They seem especially pink tonight and he hopes it’s from remnants of chapstick and not from being kissed earlier in the evening. She leans in and pecks his cheek, murmuring, “Did I wake you?" 

It’s a rhetorical question because she knows he goes to bed at ten every night and it’s now twelve-thirty. She knows his schedule like the back of her hand; though, he supposes, she ought to after so many years of friendship.

Twelve years of friendship spans between them. Having known each other since the young age of eight, time has given them plenty of opportunities to learn each other’s quirks. He supposes he’s been in love with her as long, too, but he can’t ever really place a time when he didn’t love her and then the moment when he did. He simply does and he has never particularly bothered to question it.

“No,” he finally answers as she leans in again, this time kissing the corner of his lip. He inches his body closer to hers; so close that when his eyes glance downward he can see her breasts, small but giving the appearance of being fuller than they are in her push-up bra. He’d told her once that he liked her better in the black lacy one with a pink bow, the one that had no extra padding and didn’t deceive the eyes, but she’d only shrugged and said she wore her clothes for her pleasure and no one else.

They love each other, but they’re not in love with each other, because love takes two people and Eren is only a single person. But, sometimes, they fuck like they are and Eren’s always left in a whirlwind of her smiles and perfume. Sometimes she stays, sometimes she goes, but the worst are the mornings when he wakes alone with empty arms after a night spent rolling in the sheets with her. Undeniably, he wishes she would always stay before sunrise and never leave his bed, but asking her to stay is out of the question. She’s like the wind: transient, mostly unpredictable, and far too capricious.

“Liar,” she says quietly, as if his parents can hear them, despite Eren’s room being on opposite ends of the hall. “You go to sleep early every night. Maybe in a past life you were a sloth.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, feeling for her hand on the bed and smiling when hers finds his first. “You would’ve been a fairy.”

“Those aren’t real,” she answers, inching closer so they’re sharing the same pillow now. Her eyes seem heavy but focused, never wavering from his gaze. Eren’s eyes flicker downwards for only for a moment and he catches sight of a hickey he’d missed before; it’s tucked underneath a strap and he’d overlooked it earlier.

It’s not the first time he’s seen one on her and he doubts it’ll be the last. He’s spent more time than he’d like to honestly admit to trying to memorize her body and he knows it well after so many years. He knows all the freckles on her shoulder, had tried to help her count them one hot summer night when they’d been in nothing but underwear. He’s kissed the dimples on her lower back more times than he can remember. But sometimes she forgets he has feelings or perhaps chooses to think he doesn’t care and, every so often, she shows up with remnants of other lovers.

Tonight is one of those nights.

He breaks his hand away from hers, reaches out to trace the bruise, thinks of the times she’s come to his bed tipsy and smelling of cheap cologne. He remembers the times he’s undressed her, gone to worship her body, only to find love bites beneath her breasts, bruises on her hips, teeth marks in odd shapes between her thighs. He’s never able to continue on these nights, always goes soft and pushes her away. She’s never addressed his demeanor change but her lack of confrontation leads him to believe she already knows how he feels—she’s always so calm and quick to wrap soothing arms around him while whispering, “Eren, I’m really sorry,” but never does she attempt to elaborate on what it is she’s apologizing for.  

This time is no different and Eren is glad they have not gone farther, that he’s able to see her antics before they’ve gotten each other too worked up. It’s different tonight, however, because as Eren finds himself pulling away, he feels Mikasa’s hand seek out his once more. He watches her lips rest in a way that indicates displeasure, her eyes furrowing as she looks for the right words to say.

There are none, Eren knows, but he will let her try anyway.

“Sometimes,” she says, so quietly and slowly he knows she’s picking her words carefully, “I think I was meant to be born in another place.”

“Like in a different era?” Eren keeps his voice level, because acting upset will not help the situation in the least, despite the hurt he feels swelling in his chest like cold water.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I was born in the right time, but not the right place. Like I should’ve been born underwater or in the sky. Maybe on Saturn or beneath a grave.”

“Places that are…impossible,” Eren says finally. He watches Mikasa pull her lower lip between her teeth, drag it back and forth. He hates himself for wanting to kiss her once more. She could not have been a fairy in any past life for she would have certainly been a siren instead, luring in men with ease.

“I don’t know who I am sometimes,” she says, her voice below a whisper now, words intentional, “and I can’t love anyone until I know who I am first.”

He supposes he should have suspected as much from her, a vague answer to a question he has not asked ( _Do you love me, too?_ ) but her words do not temper the hurt. They don’t quell but they help, however minimally, and he reaches out a forgiving hand to swipe his thumb across the lower lip she has been worrying. 

_I forgive you._

It’s a testament to their long-standing friendship that he does not need to verbalize his statement for her to understand it. She releases his hand for only a moment to draw up his comforter around them, lacing their fingers once more after. With gentle tugs to his hand she maneuvers him so they’re facing each other on his pillow again. When she leans her forehead in he meets her half way, unable to resist the last affection of kissing her nose before they settle down. It’s cute to him the way her nose crinkles for a brief second before she smiles and closes her eyes; he knows she will drift off first because she is always running at full-speed so when she stops for a moment to rest, she always crashes hard. 

When his eyes can stay open no longer, Eren knows before they have closed that this is a night where she will not be in his bed come morning. She will leave and his window will be left open, curtains cast aside to be blown by a breeze that will pass through his room. It will sting him to wake alone, as it always does, but like any siren worth their salt, she will surely come back another night to sing him to sleep once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because why is it always Mikasa pining for Eren?
> 
> edit:   
> ao3 user miikasaa wrote an _amazing_ second part to this, titled 'wanderlust,' and it's seriously wonderful. Go read it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1956315/chapters/9041731)! (Seriously, go do it!)


	16. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter contains spoilers** pertaining to chapter ch. 53, 'Stupid Believers,' aka, the chapter where Hanji tries to have Eren harden his skin and Mikasa wants to kill her. 
> 
> Please note that Hanji is referred to as a female, mostly because it's easier for me to work with, so please don't take offense!
> 
> This isn't beta'd like most of my longer chapters, so I apologize if there's any mistakes. I also took some liberties with Eren as a titan but tried to keep as true to form as possible.
> 
> For guest/anon user 'Trick,' who requested Mikasa bonding with Eren while he's a titan. (This was a lot of fun!)

It is painful for Mikasa to watch Eren lose control of himself; it aches in her bones to watch him follow commands with ease then slowly struggle to follow basic requests with no real evident reason for the decline. When his fifteen-meter self falls, she’s there to help hold him up, her lips tight and body rigid as his human form goes slack in her arms. It is not up to her to stop him and she knows even if she could he could stop he’d want to persevere and keep pushing himself, with or without nudges from Hanji and Levi. 

She doubts that when he tries again thirty minutes later and reappears as a thirteen meter titan he’s aware of the way he swaggers with frustration or tears and rips things from the roots, that even when he’s destroying the house he’d constructed he’s still doing it with an anger that he carries in his person every day. She bites her lip when he rampages and is once more there again when he exits his titan form, holding him up with noticeable concern etched on her face, wrinkles around her eyes and mouth causing her to look more unfriendly than usual. 

The third time he attempts to transform is the worst, when he cannot stand and is barely ten meters. She wants to rip Hanji apart for pushing him so far, would probably have taken her sword to her if she wasn’t so wrapped up in Eren’s health. It comes as a surprise to no one that, later when he is filled in, Eren is clearly disappointed in his lack of results, his failure in being unable to harden his skin.

Mikasa does not blame him and nor is she disappointed. Levi doesn’t blame him, so he says, and she believes him. Hanji is more interested in her experiment results than she is in blaming Eren. Others who were there have their own opinions but their thoughts mean little to her. 

Eren, she knows, blames himself. He tends to try to carry the weight of humanity on his shoulders without much success, for Mikasa has lost count of how much slack she’s had to carry for his failures. It is because she cares about him—loves him, she might even say—that she doesn’t mind cleaning up his disasters as much as she should. She expects him to succeed as much as she expects him to fail—that is, to say, she expects both equally, because his luck is dependent on far too many variables. 

It shouldn’t surprise her when, later that night as she lies sleeping (resting, really, as she hasn’t slept peacefully in years) near his bed, she hears the floor creak and an unmistakable pause as the feet wait to see if they’ve been noticed. When she opens her eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dark, she hears a quiet sigh of relief. Soft, tired footsteps make their way down the stairs and even then she hears the calculated steps as the person moves slow in attempts to avoid making noise. When the feet reach the steps at the bottom, she sits up and walks over to the stair landing, taking as much care and caution as the person before her. 

She’s not surprised to see a shock of dark hair disappearing around the landing and does not think twice before making her way down as well, though with less mindfulness than she should be using, worried he might escape her line of vision for too long. She worries that when he steps outside something might happen to him; should the wrong people catch him alone it could certainly be the end of him. He’s unlucky that way, sure to get captured and snagged at every opportunity. 

There’s a soft click as a door closes behind him and she picks up her pace to catch up, unsure of when he’d managed to get that far without her noticing. When she steps outside after slipping on shoes, she lets him slink around and pretends to not see the way he wraps his cloak around him in the chill before scampering off into the woods. When the inside of her cheek begins to bleed, she realizes she has been biting down on it hard, frustration in her welling at Eren’s stupidity to think he can escape into the night unnoticed for any reason. 

Without her around, any luck he has diminishes significantly. Leaving him alone is not an option and for this particular reason, that he is sure to be harmed on his own, she follows him into the woods, tugging her own cloak around her neck tighter. 

It’s particularly challenging in the night to follow him, for although he’s only going on foot, the sounds of his shoes crunching blends with the noise from animals around them, swallowed into the night, and the trees and their shadows conceal his body. It’s lucky for her she knows Eren well enough to know how he handles things, knows that Eren does not walk in straight lines but prefers to zigzag, typically starting left before alternating right and so forth. She sees remnants of him in snapped tree branches and tramped flowers under the moon and knows she’s not far behind. When she eventually hears his labored breathing, still exhausted from the stress Hanji had him under earlier, and sees his body in a clearing, no longer moving but looking determined, she knows he’s found what he’s been seeking. 

She’s about to step out and call his name, ask him why he’s wandered so far, when she sees the rise of his hand and watches the tell-tale way his mouth bites down on his skin. There’s no time for her to call his name, to tell him he’s going to draw attention to them, they’ll be discovered—by Levi, Hanji, or anyone else—and he that he should reconsider, because he’s already changed, already stretching his muscles under the sky, smoke rising high and arms raised up as if to grab the moon.

The words perched on her tongue catch and she inhales, swallowing the name she’d been about to call; he looks so beautiful, so handsome, so _strong_ , she almost has a hard time believing this shifter is the boy she grew up with for so many years. Torn limbs that regenerate replace his scraped knees and his frustrated cries are harsh screams on her ears in this form. It never ceases to catch her off guard when he transforms and although her natural instinct is to go after him again she hesitates, wanting to see why he came out in the first place.

One hour, she thinks, glancing up at the moon for a vague indication of time. They have an hour, if they’re lucky, before Eren will begin to lose his sense of conscious as he did earlier. Her tongue pokes at the cut she’d made in her mouth earlier. 

For a bit, Eren seems only to pace in large circles, toying with his muscles. As he sits down and extends his legs, she almost laughs at the way he appears to be reaching for his toes, standing up a moment later to flex his arms in a way that makes her smile. She thinks there’s a good chance that he’s trying to assess himself and judge if he’s capable of working all his muscles. She sees his mouth move, although nothing audible comes out, and she wants to remind him to be quiet, but, again, she only licks at her earlier wound, her eyes alert for any unusual sounds or voices. 

Eren seems content with his abilities and Mikasa watches him walk towards a tree and grab at it. It’s a small, thin tree that snaps easily under his large fingers. He sets it in the middle of the clearing and looks around before finding another tree of similar structure. With interest, she realizes he’s gathering small, twig-like trees, and he creates a pile of them before sitting down in front of them. She almost gives herself away when she chuckles to see his large hands rest underneath his chin in a way reminiscent of his human form. 

She watches him lay out four trunks into a square. He reaches for another trunk and places it on one of the corners and then looks around, seeming confused, and it dawns on her he’s attempting to build a structure of some sort, similar to the one he’d been making with Hanji earlier. The difference is he has nothing to tie them all together and he’s realized this only too late; he throws the tree trunk down in frustration and begins to pull at his hair, pacing around in large stomps that spike her anxiety.

When the taste of blood spills onto her tongue, she realizes she has reopened the wound from earlier, though her initial concern is preventing Eren from drawing attention to him, to their location. She doesn’t realize she’s stepped over to him until she sees him pause, his eyes locking onto her; when she glances up at the moon and notices no real changes she guesses it hasn’t been more than fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes. 

“Eren?” Her voice is a loud whisper that she hopes will travel through the breeze and reach his ears. If Eren is surprised, his face portrays nothing, though his titan form is not the most expressive and she doesn’t know how to interpret his stance. When Eren steps forward and sits down in front of her, his legs crossed, he points at the logs he’s been working on. If he’s surprised, he’s lucky his titan form is not expressive of emotions.

“You’re working on…building something?” She steps forward and is suddenly aware now that she’s next to him she’s barely the size of his large toe. Eren points at it once more, miming a tying motion—so she’d been correct in her earlier assumption. 

“I can’t help you and you can’t talk. But I don’t have any material for you to tie it with, sorry,” she says to him. When Eren lowers a hand to her she steps into it without a second thought, though worries for a moment when she realizes she’s not wearing her gear and if she should fall there is certainly an increased risk of injury. Eren moves his hand to his shoulder and after a moment’s hesitation she climbs onto his shoulder. 

His body stiffens as he lets her adjust and sit. She perches herself comfortably near his neck. It’s muscular and hard beneath her, though oddly comforting, as the last real memory she has being in this spot was only a moment before Eren attempted to swipe at her. It’s nice, she thinks, resting on him. She has never dreamed of there being a day when she would fully trust a titan— _any_ titan—but here she is, undoubtedly willing to protect one, just one, a special one. 

Eren still has no solution to his problem, however, but now seems to have given up the idea entirely. After placing her on his shoulder, he’d taken great care in the way he walked over to his logs so she would not fall before sitting down with a surprising amount of grace, though Mikasa suspected it was more for her benefit more than his. He is noticeably not making any attempt to communicate with her, but she can’t find it in herself to be offended, for he already invited her to join him without really asking. Only once does she move, shifting to lay sideways on him, her back to his muscle and a leg dangling precariously over his chest.

Some time passes, though she is not aware of it nor his actions, for her eyes have grown heavy, drowsy from the rhythmic movement of his muscles beneath her, rocking her to sleep. It is not until she feels his body tense up once more that she startles, rubbing blearily at her eyes and murmuring, “Eren?” To her surprise, he picks up one of the thin trees from earlier and tosses it; the loud clash of it breaking against a larger tree shakes any sleepiness she’d had left. It’s hard for her to maintain balance and she grapples at the tough skin beneath her. 

With another glance at her surroundings she realizes the moon has shifted; it’s probably been close to thirty or forty minutes they’ve been out here now. 

It startles her to see on the ground that Eren has used the trees to messily construct words, or what she assumes are supposed to be words— _cant remember_. Can’t remember? She tosses the words around in her head, tries them on her tongue before noticing that Eren has started pacing and is now pulling at his hair. 

“Eren, can you hear me?” She’s gripping onto him tightly, sure that she must be leaving indentures, though doubts he feels a thing in this state. His arms above her weaved into his hair are intimidating and she knows she’s nothing more than a fly to him; should he chose to brush her off or forget her presence, she could easily be harmed. His motions are more erratic and he’s pacing louder, kicking the trees he’d pulled earlier. Strands of his pulled hair fall to the floor and rise up in small waves of smoke. 

He either can’t hear her or is ignoring her. The last time she’d been in this situation, she had her gear on, able to scale him and her surroundings. Now, in nothing but the clothes on her back, she feels one of the few things she hates: useless. There is little time to react and as he’s pacing with larger clumps of his hair following and his kicks growing wider, she does the only thing she can think of—on unsteady legs she climbs to the crook of his neck and bites hard, to where her teeth sink completely into his skin and she has to pry them off him after. 

She doubts it feels like more than a bug bite but it’s enough to make him pause. When she feels the movement of his hand she flinches, curling in on herself, and finds herself swathed in darkness; it takes her a minute to realize he’s only covering her with his hand. Steady bumping beneath her lets her know he’s walking and she stands, her head nowhere near the curve of is fingers. When moonlight filters through and he’s stopped walking, she sees his hand uncurl, lowering to her level. There’s hesitation again and as she steps onto his hand, she feels, for the first time, the quiver in his muscles: he’s nervous or anxious about something. He’s careful to cross his legs as he sits down and she notes with interest that, despite all the hair he’d pulled out earlier, his scalp is not patchy. 

As he settles she copies him, crossing her legs on his hand to sit down. He rises up his hand so she’s facing him and—like always when she’s so close to him, so close to potential danger—her throat closes and her words fail to come out immediately. She can’t help but notice the way his fingers naturally curl in, almost as if to put her in a cage. She coughs to clear her throat and says with more confidence than she feels, “Are you…feeling better?”

An unsure nod answers her. 

Her tongue skims across the cut in her mouth as she replies, “Your memory is fading again, isn’t it? You’re worried about not remembering things when you change, aren’t you?” 

The even longer pause with an even less sure nod lets her know she’s hit the mark fairly close; after all, she hasn’t spent so many years with Eren to not know him sufficiently. 

Her moments alone with Eren are rare and even more so (read: never) when he’s in his titan form. Should he lash out at her now there would be no one around to save her and despite this, she trusts him, trusts he has a better grip on himself as much as it worries her to put so much faith in a form he cannot always handle.

“Bring me closer.” 

The hand beneath her quivers more before bringing her closer; so close, in fact, she can almost feel his breath on her. His eyes stare at her with an unnerving amount of patience and although they are much larger than she’s used to, the shade of them is relatively the same. It’s calming and, with newfound confidence, she stands up and walks on unsteady feet to his nearest finger. She points at it, glancing over at him, pleased to see the way they widen in curiosity; she knows him far too well and even as a titan, he cannot conceal all his emotions from her. Even she can’t prevent the smile that crosses her face as he leans in to see her better when he curls his pointer finger down in her direction.

Even with his help she still has to stand on her tiptoes and it takes more courage than she’s ever felt fighting any enemy titans to lean up and kiss the tip of his finger. The reaction from him is immediate—he pulls his finger back abruptly, nearly knocking her off him in the process. She doubts he felt anything but is sure his vision is perfect enough where he had clearly seen her action. Still, his sharp movements cause her to stumble forward and she latches onto the finger she’d just kissed to regain some balance. 

After a moment she feels his hand rise, this time to bring them both at eye level (though, it is unfair that his eyes are so much larger than her own). He does not need to speak or even indicate what is clear in his eyes, just as expressive as a titan as a human: _Why?_

At least at this question she has the grace to blush, praying to any god that may exist he can’t see it in the dark with his large eyes as she rolls her shoulders and smiles. “Maybe you can’t remember everything that happens as a titan or everything that happened with Grisha. But you’ll remember that, won’t you?” 

There’s a good chance if he were in his human form he’d either be laughing or gaping at her in a combination of shock and awe. She hopes it’s the latter in both cases, for he does nothing to respond for a few minutes. Then, when she thinks maybe she really did screw up, his other hand comes up and oh-so-gently he touches the top of her head, stroking his finger downwards, as if to pet her or pull her hair. He’s playing with her, she understands, and she reaches up to playfully swat at his hand, smack at his fingers. 

They banter wordlessly for some time, till she realizes that his movements are becoming jerky and less coordinated. It isn’t until his empty fist clutches tightly that she realizes they’ve been fooling around too long and it’s certainly been over an hour since his transformation. 

“You have to put me down, Eren,” she urges suddenly, receiving no response; his attention is completely on his other hand, opening and closing erratically. The same hand reaches up, beginning to pull at hair once more. Her time with him as a titan is dwindling and finally, as if a child who has not had their demands met, she stomps her feet and yells, “Put me down, Eren! I can’t jump from here.” 

As childish as it is, he’s either listening or acknowledging her, for within a few moments after her near-tantrum she finds herself lowered; not completely, but enough to where she can get down without injuring herself. There is little she can do for Eren, however, and as he starts pulling at hair and clawing at his face, she knows there is nothing to be done. She will have to let him run is course and pray for him to be able-minded after. 

It happens, of course, the moment when he becomes human once more. He’s conscious, but barely, and doesn’t respond to her calling his name. She pulls him onto her lap before realizing that while his pants are still on, his shirt is not. The cloak around her comes off to be draped around his body while she slumps down on a tree, his body awkwardly held against hers. He’s too big to be cradled like a baby but she does it anyway, keeping her eyes and ears alert in a way she’d stopped doing earlier, so absorbed in being entertained by his titan persona was she.

She’s cold but Eren is hot, so damn hot, she feels herself begin to sweat. Even as his body cools and hers picks up heat she holds him tighter. A glance upwards at the sky sparks alarm in her—they need to head back soon before they’re missed, if Levi hasn’t noticed their absence already (and god dammit, she’s sure he has, nothing slips by him so easily). Her eyes begin to droop, heavy and tired once more, when she feels him stir in her arms a while later. 

“Mikasa?” His voice is hoarse and cracked, tired like hers. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you going to be okay to walk?” Her grip on him lessens, her voice a rasp as she catches her voice in the mornings chill. She feels him touch his chest and sigh when he realizes he has no shirt; silently, she pulls the cloak over him completely. 

He supposes it’s out in the clearing somewhere, but now that he is not a titan the effort to walk the distance seems too strenuous and tedious. He’s far too exhausted to care as much as he should. His eyes glance at her face for a brief moment, noticing the purple moons beneath her eyes and the struggle it is for her to keep them open. He stands, pulling her with him, and feels her weight against him. While he’s almost sure—no, he knows—he’s got less energy than her, still he lets her lean on him in silence the whole way back; as worn out as she is, he knows she’s refusing to be embarrassed by letting him carry all her weight, well aware he’s running on empty, too. 

When they get back, creeping in with as much silence as they can muster, Eren intentionally stops by her bed first. She protests, as he expects her to, but he’s firm, pushing her onto her bed with a hand on her shoulder. 

“My bed is right there, you can see it from here…I know that’s how you knew I was leaving,” he murmurs into her ear. He stops for a moment, sure he felt her shiver, before brushing it off. She turns to face his standing figure, her mouth poised to speak, before he shakes his head sharply—the more she speaks, the more likely they are to be caught. Tentatively, he reaches out to twin their hands together, intentionally using the finger she’d kissed earlier to stroke the top of hers. He wants to ask her with words—real words—what her true intention had been kissing him earlier, but he knows now is not the time. 

For all her fighting, it takes her only a few minutes of silently protesting before her grip slackens in his and he knows she’s fallen asleep. He’s careful in taking time to remove her shoes after and pulling up a blanket around her, tucking her in at the edges (but not too tight or she’ll fear she’s trapped when she wakes). She’s snoring softly and while he wants to laugh and commit the image to memory, all he can think of is the way her lips had felt as she’d kissed his finger—a tiny warm spot, a prick of sunshine on his rough titan skin. Her words ( _You’ll remember that, won’t you?_ ) ring like bells in his ears.

Before he forces himself away from her he leans down to kiss her forehead, a soft touch that stirs her for a moment before she sighs deeply. His voice is unsteady and unsure as he murmurs, “How could I possibly forget?”


	17. Flowers

They’re six when they meet at school for the first time, Eren the child constantly being told to _Go sit back down, Eren_ , while Mikasa is the new student in their class who arrives half-way through the school year. When Eren is removed from his seat next to Armin (“You’re disrupting him, we’re going to sit you at a table by yourself for now, Eren.”), Mikasa is placed next to him instead; their quiet personalities overlap in a way that initially causes an awkwardness and almost dislike that young children are prone to. 

It isn’t until Armin accidentally slices his finger on paper that they’re brought together, for it’s Mikasa who takes his hand and says, “It’s okay, I’ll go get the teacher. So don’t cry, okay?” She says it so reassuringly that, with water pricking the corners of his eyes, Armin only nods in response, watching her leave their table to tug at their teacher’s skirt for help.

He likes her and says as much to Eren later at lunch that day, asking, “Can we sit with Mikasa? I want to sit with her today.” 

“But why?” Eren whines, looking over at Connie and Jean who are talking about their lunches with Sasha. She’s waving a chicken nugget in their faces before taking a bite off of her dinosaur’s head. “I want to sit next to Connie.” 

“But she’s alone,” Armin points out, inching her way with a few steps in her direction. 

“So?” Eren, feeling rather fed up with Armin and his questions, goes to sit next to Connie; he pays no mind to his best friend going to sit with the new girl in the class. 

When they’re dismissed from the tables to go play, Eren convinces Armin to play tag with him, despite the fact that Armin repeatedly keeps saying he wants to go play on the swings. (Truly, their friendship is based more on the fact that their parents are long-time friends and neighbors than their own willingness to play together.) 

It’s as Eren’s running after Armin that he trips on a lunch bag left unattended on the woodchips; without grace he slips and knocks head-first into a pair of knobby knees that are surely going to leave a large bump on his forehead. 

When he looks up, rubbing his head with loud and vocal complaints, that he realizes the person he bumped into is none other than Mikasa, whose looking down at him with wide eyes as she says, “Are you okay?” As she makes no move to help him, he stands up, his face red as he reaches out to push her by her shoulders. 

“Watch where you’re going!” he yells, as if it were her lunch pail and her fault he fell. He turns around and runs off before she has a chance to respond, leaving Armin to help lift her by her arms to stand back up. 

It isn’t until later, when they’re both playing with chalk together outside Eren’s house, waiting for his mom to finish making food, that Armin says, “That was really mean of you to push Mikasa.” 

Eren, who has already forgotten about the incident entirely, looks up from his chalk drawing of an alligator chomping on cookies, sharp teeth evident in his wide mouth. “It’s her fault.” 

“You ran into her first.” Armin is drawing a small scale Earth, attempting to replicate the planet as best he knows. “You should say sorry when you see her.” 

“It’s not my fault!” Eren throws his chalk to the cement, glaring at Armin with as much anger as he can muster at his friend; his face, however, is already turning a tell-tale shade of pink with his ears beginning to flush as well. “She’s not even my friend.”

“She’s my friend. I like her,” Armin says, picking up the blue Eren had tossed and beginning to add more color to his artwork. 

“Well, I don’t,” Eren says, using his thumb to smudge some of the crocodile’s sharp teeth away. 

At recess the next school day, Eren finds that Armin is not talking to him, and while the first thing he says to Connie is, “Make Armin come play with us,” he’s sure it has something to do with the new girl, Mikasa, because Armin is playing with her and not him. He watches as they play on the swings together, Mikasa giving Armin a push before she gets on her own swing.

His lower lip juts out into a large, prominent pout, and Sasha points at him, saying, “Eren looks mad!” He turns away from her and walks to the field, scanning the ground until he finds what he’s looking for. 

With more confidence then he feels at six, he walks over to where Armin and Mikasa are, standing directly in front of her, holding out his hand that’s squishing a beaten-up yellow dandelion. 

“For you,” he murmurs, avoiding her gaze, looking at the woodchips beneath the swings instead. 

There’s silence as he hears her footsteps descend from the swings then walk closer to him. It surprises him when he feels a soft kiss on his cheek as she says, “Thank you.” 

He reaches out, putting his hands on her shoulders as he says, “Don’t kiss me! I don’t want to tell on you, okay?” His cheeks are red and ears pink as he avoids Armin’s gaze.

Armin watches their interactions from his swing, looking substantially happier than before. Eren doesn’t wait for either of them as he turns around to go and play kickball with Connie. 

\---

Eren is thirteen, almost fourteen, when he finds out Jean has a crush on Mikasa and he’s _still_ thirteen ( _almost_ fourteen) when he finds out that Mikasa probably has a crush on Jean, too. 

He finds out from Armin, but only on a Saturday night when he asks, “Why isn’t Mikasa here? It’s Saturday. We always watch movies together on Saturday’s.” 

Armin is reaching for a handful of skittles as he says, “She had a date with Jean today. They’re going to a movie together. He asked her out on Friday.” 

“She’s going to a movie with him on _our_ movie night?” For some reason, this bothers Eren more than he wants to admit. He reaches for the television remote, flipping on cartoons to a show he doesn’t like but also knows Armin doesn’t enjoy either, and for the moment, he’s feeling rather spiteful at the wrong person. “Why would he even ask her out, anyway?” 

“Yes, why would anyone ask out our pretty, kind friend?” Armin replies with no lack of sarcasm. He takes the remote from Eren as he starts browsing through the pay-per-view movie options before standing up and walking to the DVD rack in the living room instead. “They talk a lot. Maybe she likes him, too. What movie do you want to watch?”

“He _likes_ her? She _like-likes_ him? How long have they liked each other? They only have one class together!” Eren glances down at the table and finds, with rising irritation, that there are M &Ms on the table that won’t be eaten because those are Mikasa’s favorite, but she isn’t here to touch them. He’s already set out three glasses for soda and his mother has ordered a large pizza—all of these things for _three_ people and he finds himself irrationally upset that she isn’t there to take her share of these foods. 

“For a few months, probably? Maybe she doesn’t like him, I don’t know.” Armin is staring at him with something akin to sympathy as he holds a DVD in his hands. “I think he tried to kiss her but she said he needed to ask her out first. And that she’d have to ask her parents when he did, but I guess it all worked out.” 

Eren glances at the DVD before Armin goes to put it on, aware it is some sci-fi movie that he’s sure is going to bore him to tears, but Mikasa isn’t here to take his side on an action flick and he doesn’t care enough to fight Armin on his choice of DVD. His mind is attempting to wrap around the information Armin has told him. 

As Armin sits back down on the couch, Eren glances down at the floor, where a DVD he’d picked earlier— _Fight Club_ , because he’d been telling Mikasa to watch it for months—lies. Mikasa isn’t here to watch the movie he’d picked special for her and it stings him a little more than it ought to. He nudges the movie under the couch, hoping Armin hadn’t noticed its presence earlier. 

When Mikasa comes to his house the next day, she shows up with a pretty red flower in her hair. 

“Did your boyfriend get that for you?” Eren asks, unable to resist a small, snide comment immediately. 

“No, it’s called an iris, and my mom picked it from her garden.” Mikasa seems unperturbed and Eren finds himself even more irritated at her when she doesn’t deny that Jean is her boyfriend. 

“Armin isn’t here, if you’re looking for him. Did you want to come in? There’s pizza left from last night, it was too much for two people.” Eren opens the door for her a crack and, despite his snarky comment, is still embarrassed to see that he’d forgotten to clean up their candy from the night before, too. (Those damn M&Ms still sit, the bowl completely full and untouched, still waiting for slim fingers to grab and eat them.) 

“I’m not looking for Armin.” Mikasa shifts side-to-side, nibbling on her lower lip as she looks up at Eren; he’s surprised to see that her face is a pretty pink and wonders what she’s thinking.

“The movie would’ve been better with you,” she admits, ducking her head before finding the confidence to raise it once more. “Would you come see a movie with me today, Eren?” 

He’s not sure if it’s a date—he’s never been on one and never had the confidence to ask any girl out—but he finds himself smiling and avoiding her eyes as he mutters, “Yeah, of course. Let me see if my mom will drive us?” 

Later in the day as they sit on Eren’s porch talking about the movie and Mikasa twirling her flower between her fingers, they kiss for the first time—awkward and messy but quite lovely, their faces as red as the flower in her hands. 

\---

“Eren, you’re going to make us late, hurry up and come out of your room!” Mikasa’s voice is loud and even from his room and behind closed doors Eren knows she’s probably pacing and pulling at her hair and gown. 

Eren didn’t want to go to prom. Neither did Mikasa, in all actuality, but Sasha had begged for a friend and even Annie was going (with Armin, no less, but it was more a friend date than a real one, or so they said). She’d still said no, though hadn’t realized that at the other end of the lunch tables Connie was working his (undignified and ungraceful) charm on Eren.

He still wasn’t sure how it happened. He couldn’t remember actually agreeing to go with the group. But he’d still somehow said _sure, fine, go away, Connie_ and by default that meant his date was his girlfriend—aka, Mikasa. She hadn’t been pleased, hadn’t wanted to go pick a gown and then be forced to buy a boutonnière and then have to tell him what colors her gown was (red) for him to match his tie and her corsage, too. 

But they’d done it, much to their chagrin and their parents’ enjoyment. Eren’s mom had helped him buy the corsage for her and his dad had fixed up his tie (it wasn’t a perfect knot, as his father didn’t often wear ties either, but it would suffice for the evening). He glances at his reflection in the mirror once more and dabs on expensive cologne that isn’t his before opening the door and stepping out.

He regrets not doing it sooner, for Mikasa certainly looks beautiful, despite the worry lines creasing her face because _god dammit, Eren, the limo is waiting_. He still doesn’t hesitate to take her hand in his and kiss it. Her pacing stalls and her face—just for a moment—slackens into a gentle expression before she sighs and pulls him closer to her.

“Your boutonnière,” she murmurs and he sees that in her other hand she is holding it. He stands patient, waiting for her to pin it to his tux before he kisses her cheek. 

“Your corsage is on the counter. Let me put it on, we’ll take a few pictures, and then go. I’m sure our parents outside are dying for last-minute pictures.” His statement doesn’t leave room for her to question him and as he walks to the kitchen to grab her corsage off the table, he fiddles with it for a moment between his fingers. 

It’s a red rose, one he hadn’t been sure was right at first, because his mom had told him to be creative. But her dress is red and a red rose would certainly show he loved her (he hoped it would, because he wasn’t too great with his words, but affectionate actions and gestures he was capable of). It was still cool from being placed in the fridge for an extra hour or two of life and he touched the petals one last time before walking to the living room where she was waiting. With her wrist outstretched to him and a small smile on her face, he slips it around her before stepping back to admire her. 

Certainly, red is her color. The sleeveless, floor-length dress is cut delicately, tight around the middle before fishtailing at the end, with a deep V-shape between her breasts (he certainly appreciates the view, though he doubts the dress was her first pick) that is lined with faux-diamonds. It’s pretty but simple, for all she has on for jewelry is a single silver bangle. Her hair is done up without too much effort, a simple bun, but pinned behind her ear is a single red flower (it looks familiar, though he can’t quite place why). 

“You look beautiful.” He says it with such sincerity and honesty her face lights up and he knows she’s pleased. 

There’s little time for her to be embarrassed as she says, “Let’s go take pictures, they’re waiting in the limo for us. I’m sure Connie and Sasha have already eaten all the snacks by now.” 

“Alright,” he replies, leaning in to kiss her beneath her flower and next to her ear. When she shivers at his touch—just slightly, so subtly he almost misses it—he smiles and murmurs against her skin, "I love you." 

\---

_I love you_ are also the last words Eren says to her before bed one night, right as he’s about to step out the door, aware that the following day will certainly be one of his most life changing as well as hers. He already knows he’s going to have a difficult time falling asleep without her in his arms. 

That night before he falls asleep, he dreams of a little boy who pushed a small girl he didn’t know, watches as her eyes well with tears because she’s new and upset and has no friends except for a little blonde boy who finds her kind. 

When he wakes, it’s early in the morning, but the day is already hustling and bustling; he finds himself tossed around in an array of plans and questions but all he’s aware of is that he’s supposed to get himself ready before anyone, so he does. He thinks of Mikasa and wonders if she’s being poked and prodded too, if she’s already frustrated by the obscene amount of people trying to help them.

He dresses himself in his new suit, puts on a tie, fixes and adjusts his hair. He takes deep breaths in the mirror, smiles with as much sincerity as possible, and says to himself, “You will be an okay husband. She will be a fantastic wife.” 

“She’s going to be a wonderful mom, too,” Armin says from behind him, startling Eren, who thought he’d been alone. Armin is dressed in his tux, a corsage of white tucked into his clothes to signify him as the best man. He smiles at Eren, sheepish for a moment, before he says, “I tried knocking a few minutes ago but you didn’t answer… I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting cold feet.”

“No, no cold feet.” Eren hesitates before turning to Armin and asking, “Do you think I’m good enough for her?”

“No,” comes Connie’s voice behind Armin. Connie laughs for a second before he says, “But you’ll be okay for her and she’ll be too good for you so somewhere in there it’ll balance out.” 

“Thanks for the words of encouragement,” Eren replies dryly, swallowing as he assesses himself once more. If nothing else reassures him, at least he knows Mikasa will be beautiful in her gown. 

As Mikasa is watching Krista begin to walk down the aisle, she starts to fidget once more. Her heels are already aching in her too-tall stilettos and her tight dress is pinching at her left hip. The clip holding her veil is tugging at her hair and Sasha won’t shut up about how excited she is to go down the aisle right before the bride. (Mikasa is regretting her choice to place Sasha before her instead of Krista, who would certainly be far quieter and more respectful in this moment.) 

As Sasha begins to walk, it’s her mom who approaches her holding her bouquet and it’s her mom who places a reassuring hand on Mikasa’s, steadying her nerves for just a minute. “Before you go out,” her mom starts, “I just wanted you to know that I love you. You’re going to make a great wife to Eren and he’s going to be a devoted husband to you. It isn’t always going to be easy, but you’ll both make it work. You love each other enough for that much.”

It takes a lot to make Mikasa cry, but even she can feel the tears welling up. “Mom, don’t make me cry right now!” She wipes the tears away slowly, wanting to avoid smudging any of her makeup before heading out. She takes a few deep breaths before she leans in to kiss her moms cheek. “I love you, please go sit down before I go out, I want you to be there.” 

“Of course.” Her mom smiles and squeezes her hand one last time before handing over the bouquet and as she leaves out a side door, Mikasa watches it open and close behind her, finding that she is now left alone. When the music changes for the last time, she straightens her posture and holds her flowers a little closer to her chest. When the doors finally open for her she clutches her bouquet tightly in her hands before beginning to walk, taking her final steps from her old life into her new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Eren was going to give her flowers at the end of every scene for some reason or another, but I like the way this one came out, too! They're such a cute little pair.


	18. Green

Mikasa wasn’t sure red was her favorite color so much as it just happened to coincide with many things she loved—her scarf, the flush of Eren’s skin when they were alone, the autumn season when apples began to expire. She loved when Eren’s lips turned dark red from too many kisses and bites, when he left maroon bruises on the inside of her thigh to be accompanied by ruby red marks at the base of her neck, always hidden beneath her tightly wound scarf. 

A color with so much positivity should bring nothing but joy and yet, paradoxically, the deep shade of red that could only mean blood follows her in a way that brings nothing but misery. She’s seen, tasted, _felt_ more blood than she ever thought possible; sometimes, red reminds her of her parents, of lost comrades and of a little girl who didn’t have the protection of a red scarf. 

Red also reminds her she’s an average human—an average woman—and every month when the red that blooms from within her comes, she’s comforted by the normality and familiarity that there is some type of odd, reliable consistency in her life. That isn’t to say she enjoys it—there’s nothing comforting about a persistent ache that follows her and pains in her stomach that worsen the hunger she already has, but it is, at least, nothing if not a small bit of the average life she never particularly got to experience. 

Sometimes, she gets so wrapped up in missions, in managing her strained relationship with Eren and training herself that she does not stop to realize when things are missing until someone else makes a comment. This time, it is Armin who reminds her after a day of training with him and Eren, for as he glances into the sky’s sunset he says, “The sun seems like it’s setting late today.” 

As she’s wondering if it’s even possible for the sun to run late, a particular word sticks out: _late_. 

She’s late, she realizes; her movements come to a halt and both Eren and Armin turn to look at her, Armin’s eyes narrowed and Eren’s head cocked. 

This is how she discovers she can also love the color yellow. She learns she can love the color of the sun, the way bright golden flowers shine beneath it, and the way yellow represents the gender of a child she does not yet know. 

Gifts in the color of yellow trickle in from friends despite her reluctance to take them. Her and Eren receive hand-knitted scarves and shoes, jackets, and outfits that seem impossibly small. She is grateful for their help and tries to express it as best she can with words of thanks at every gift but soon finds she has nowhere to store such precious items and neither does Eren. Their lives are not designed to support a child, let alone its possessions.

It’s Armin who uses the last of his saved coins to buy her a second-hand chest decorated plainly with nothing but a large, yellow sunflower painted on with such care that she loves it instantly. She spends an hour after receiving it folding the knitted clothes and, when he isn’t looking, refolding the pieces that Eren attempts to help her with. 

They’re scolded and reprimanded, of course, from every superior possible. Although it is never explicitly said to her, she feels the word failure follow her around like a dark shadow on her back, leeching off when she isn’t actively trying to fend it off. She can’t continue as a soldier and it is a fact that everyone is instantly aware of. When good-willed gestures are offered from friends (“Let me carry that for you!” “Do you need an escort? It’s getting dark!”) she finds herself growing more and more irritated: she’s pregnant, not maimed or unable to care for herself. 

Perhaps the worst blow of all comes when, upon wearing her gear one day, Levi tells her to remove it and put it away. With clarity and no hesitation he tells her, “You’re dismissed from wearing it until further notice.” 

She has no desire to quit the corps and says as much—“I plan on wearing it as soon as I am able to once more.”

The survey corps needs her as much as she needs it, just as much as Eren needs her to be there for him and vice versa. She will, in due time, put the gear back on and although there are still logistics to work out—who will watch their child when they’re gone?—this is something to be dealt with later. A child, she decides one night when she is too restless to sleep, will not hinder her from helping Eren and nor will it prevent her from any of her own goals. 

As months pass by, Mikasa finds she misses red less and less and takes solace in the yellow the earth has to offer. She sits beneath the sun on tops of grassy hills, surrounded by dandelions and sunflowers, where she can (most enviously) watch Eren continue to train and practice. On particularly warm days, she lifts up her shirt a bit, tucks it beneath her breasts to expose her stomach to the sky: she likes to imagine she’s warming up the baby’s home a bit like bread waking and rising comfortingly to the fire around it. It’s on one of these days she dozes, her arm tossed lazily over her eyes for shade, when she feels rough, chapped lips on her stomach that startle her. The lips slowly graze the bump that, by her guess, is around three or four months and is noticeable but only just. 

“Sleep well?” Eren asks, crossing his legs and arching his back. She notes with a tinge of envy the sweat that covers him, indicating a particularly good work out. 

“I’d sleep better if I didn’t feel so useless during the day.” He doesn’t remind her that sometimes she does do other important things—helping file paperwork, overseeing other trainees and helping perfect their form from the ground—and she doesn’t bring it up. She feels useless doing anything but being in the air with him and Armin but knows well enough that even if she were to put on her gear and attempt to use it, she would have the support of none around her and would certainly only be fighting against a battle she stood no chance in winning. 

“It won’t last forever,” Eren gently reminds her, pulling out strands of grass from beneath him. He looks up at her face, eyes still drowsy from sleep, and tentatively opens up his arms for her; she feels the relief in his body when she curls into him beneath the sun, his body already hot and hers warm from earlier. 

“I hope we’re not cooking the baby,” she murmurs into his neck, her eyes drifting closed as she feels him pick her up to no doubt take her to her bed. 

It is many more months until she once again sees red and she finds it reassuring in a small way that the process begins to happen in her favorite yellow sundress, made for her by a local woman town that had felt sympathy to see the young, pregnant soldier struggling in clothes that were too tight. She had only requested to see the child when he or she was born and offered to make the child clothes from the same dress when it would be too large and loose for its mother. 

When she finally sees red come from her once more, it is not in a comforting or reassuring way; nor is it in a way of misery or terror that she’s accustomed to. Instead, when red pools and blooms from her, she knows it is because she is—like she always has been, always will be—a female human, one that can give life like any other who chooses to do so. The red that comes from her this time signifies not death but life and for once she is scared of this color and what it will bring her.

Eren is there, of course, holding her hand and attempting to be as supportive as can be, offering words of encouragement and endearment; despite this, there is little more she wants to do than to tell him to be quiet and let her concentrate because, as she discovers, it is not as easy as one, two, three, push! She has to remind herself he is just as new at the entire process as she is and knows even less than she of what is happening to her body. 

When the red ebbs and she’s left with a tiny, wailing body and Eren over her shoulder, she’s startled to see such large, green eyes on such a little face. She holds the tiny child closer to her chest, lets the baby feel her beating heart to momentarily soothe the crying. It’s true, she thinks with tired amusement, that she loves red and yellow, but perhaps she loves green just a little bit more.


	19. Alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've fallen into the pit of hell that is the Erwin/Levi fandom, so it is briefly implied here (as in, two/three sentences). 
> 
> Also, for those unfamiliar, flip cup and kings cup are drinking games.

When Eren finally acknowledges he needs to piss, he’s already four beers and three shots of tequila in, not including the extra alcohol from playing kings cup and flip cup. His memory is cooperative but hazy, and details are starting to blur together, like what time it is and when he’s supposed to be home. 

He knows that it is a Friday night, that Connie drove them and Armin sat in the front seat sighing about the inevitability of being the only sober one on the way back while Jean had been busy ignoring them on his cell phone the entire ride over. He’s sure that Armin is supposed to drive him home and that it’s probably well past midnight but maybe it’s a little earlier or a bit later (also, he’s sure he has a curfew, but can’t remember the time for that either). As he’s stumbling through the house, the latest game of beer pong forgotten in lieu of a bathroom, he’s also aware that this isn’t his house but instead it belongs to a blond jock with blue eyes who seems happily buzzed, draped over a small, intimidating and noticeably less friendly figure. 

But in all actuality he doesn’t care who owns the house or who’s hooking up with who on the furniture, because all he’s aware of is his dire and desperate need to find a bathroom. He doubts any of his friends have noticed his absence yet, for Connie and Jean had been drunkenly debating the existence of aliens when he’d walked away from the game mid-throw, both of them attempting to use Armin to prove their point. 

He’s stumbling down a large hall when he sees a closed door and hears what sounds like a bathroom vent and a toilet flushing; when he knocks, then begins to bang his forehead against the door, all he hears is a hushed, “Shit, fuck, stay quiet!” Even drunk, Eren is highly aware of what was most likely going on behind the closed door. No amount of hand or head banging appears to be enough to coax them out. Eren calls this bathroom a lost cause and prays that there’s another nearby. 

There’s more stumbling and a few trips over various feet in shoes as he rounds a corner, dodging beer cans and cups as best he can. When he looks around, he notices he’s in front of a large staircase that seems to be oddly vacant, though he chalks it up to there being more music and partying in the bottom half of the house as opposed to the upper. In any case, it doesn’t distract him from his goal of finding a bathroom, but it takes him all of two seconds to realize he is too drunk to walk up the stairs alone; with only a moment’s hesitation he finds himself on all fours crawling up the stairs. 

When he gets to the top, he notes that there are three doors, all closed, but that two of the three have socks hanging off their doorknobs. Deciding it best not to chance those two, he crawls to the one at the very end, prays it’s a bathroom, and doesn’t bother to knock before opening the door. (Why risk knocking and getting shut out again? It doesn’t really matter to him anyway—he’s far too drunk and needing to piss to care if someone’s in there or not. He’d be willing to go with strangers in there if they’d face the wall for a minute.) 

He’s surprised and a little disappointed to find himself inside a large bedroom, decorated rather ornately. It’s even more surprising how quiet the room is for such a loud party going on right beneath the floors. When he’s able to get himself up with help from the door, he closes it, giving his eyes a second to adjust to the dim lighting. The only source of light appears to be a small lamp resting on a nightstand. 

There’s a scent of apples, perhaps a perfume, and he inhales deeply before realizing there’s a figure on the bed next to the lamp, staring at him curiously but with reserved annoyance. He’s immediately embarrassed to realize the figure is in fact a girl no doubt around his age, perhaps a bit older, perhaps a bit younger, but she’s so startlingly attractive that he momentarily forgets the reason he’s invaded what is clearly her space. 

“Bathroom,” he croaks, voice dry from alcohol, his head buzzing so loud he’s sure she can hear it. His eyes flicker to the corner of her room where a door taunts him, half-open, the bathroom counter visible. 

“There’s a bathroom in the hall,” she says, closing the book on her lap; his face turns a shade of red when he sees the pleated skirt she’s wearing with black stockings. He’s so tempted to follow his gaze _up, up, up_ the skirt that he makes a point to stare at the wooden floors beneath him, which immediately begin to spin. 

“They’re full. Doorknobs,” he mumbles by way of explanation, thinking of the patterned ties he’d seen earlier. He begins to dance around a bit, trying to think of how to convince her to let him use the bathroom she clearly has attached to her room.

Her eyes narrow just a tad, following his movements, before she sighs and points with her index finger to the door he’d been eying. “There’s a bathroom behind that door. Don’t touch anything and don’t miss the toilet, or you’re cleaning it up. I don’t care how drunk you are.” 

Never in his life could he recall bolting to a bathroom so fast and the relieved feeling carries with him as he’s washing his hands and leaving her bathroom, which is adorned in a surprising amount of rubber ducks of various colors. Normally he’d be more perturbed by going to the bathroom whilst being stared at by so many plastic eyes, but again: alcohol. As he leaves her bathroom, he finds she’s still on the bed, book open once more, her body subconsciously leaning into the light. Her eyes look strained and narrowed, clearly struggling to read properly. Eren speaks before he realizes his words: “You need glasses.” 

“You should go back down to the party,” she replies, eyes glancing above the book to look at him, though he feels more like a specimen under a microscope by the way her eyes are observing him. 

“I think that’s a great idea,” he agrees, turning to take a step before tripping over the rug on the floor; his face flushes red and he hopes she thinks it’s from the alcohol. As he tries to pull himself up he reaches for the closest thing—her bedspread, which starts to pull her with him. 

“Stop it,” she finally says, frustrated at his inability to help himself. She closes her book and sets it down on her bed. “I’ll do it, just stop moving. You’re a walking disaster.” 

“I know.” He expects her to help him to the door and is instead surprised when he feels her plop him down on the end of her bed, her eyes focused on his chin. “Am I dying?”

When she laughs he knows he’s finally done something right. Her hand reaches out to touch his chin and she shakes her head, saying, “You’re not dying. But you are bleeding. You must’ve torn it on the rug. Stay still.” 

She disappears to the bathroom he’d just come from and as she’s doing so, he feels his phone vibrate. He takes it from his front pocket, laying his back down onto her mattress as he tries to read Jean’s scrambled message. He can’t tell if the words— _wre u???_ —are scrambled because he’s drunk, because Jean’s drunk, or if perhaps a drunk Connie has taken Jean’s phone and typed it instead. He hits what he thinks is _Reply_ , only to realize he’s already sent a message containing nothing more than the eloquent words of, _here am!_ (When had he typed that?) 

A quiet click indicates the bathroom door is opening once more. _Oh well_ , he thinks as he watches the girl reemerge with a band-aid and wipes, _they can all wait_. 

“Sit up,” she says, trying to tug him up once more by his hand. 

“So comfy,” he murmurs, turning his head into her bedspread—it must be silk because he’s certainly never felt something so comfortable and relaxing in his twenty-one-years of existence. 

“I should think so, since it’s my bed,” she says with only mild amusement. 

A moment later there’s pressure on his abdomen and he thinks, for a horrifying second, he’s going to be crushed and killed by some unknown and hidden ghost—then, of course, logic reminds him that he’s in the room of someone who he does not know and that it is also more than likely said person is also the one on top of him. It’s an intimate pose—or perhaps, it would be, if he weren’t too drunk to really be aware of their movements. Perhaps if he were a little less drunk and a lot more confident he’d even try to flirt with her. 

“Don’t take advantage of me,” he says, though he must be slurring terribly because she smiles a tiny bit; he feels the wipes on his chin, her fingers dabbing carefully. It stings for only a few seconds and he’s relieved it doesn’t hurt more. 

“I’ll try my best,” she replies and he wonders if he imagines the way her stocking-clad legs seem to tighten a little around him. 

“I’m delicate,” he adds. “I bruise easy.” 

“Interesting, I’ll remember that—what’s your name?” She opens the band-aid and places it carefully on his chin at an angle. 

“Eren.” He’s slightly disappointed when he feels her climbing off him, throwing away the trash in a basket by the nightstand before she’s back on the bed. The book she’d been reading earlier is at her feet and he tries to read the cover before realizing the words are meshing together in a way that he cannot, at this point in time, comprehend. 

“I’m Mikasa,” she finally says. “Why aren’t you going downstairs yet?”

“Comfy bed,” he reminds her, wriggling his way up her sheets. When he’s close to a pillow, he attempts to grab it, but finds she snatches it away before he can fully grasp it. 

“My bed, my pillows,” she says. Her legs are straight out in front of her and he wonders if this is because she’s worried about flashing him in her skirt. It’s then he realizes that the stockings aren’t all black like he’d thought, but instead, close to her upper thigh, end in cute little cat ears with a small cat face cut out in white below it. It is absolutely adorable.

He vaguely thinks about what it would be like to kiss up between her thighs, wonders if she’d moan or shiver or both, if she’d plead for more or remain quietly resistant. He buries his head into her bed as his face reddens terribly, cursing himself for thinking something so impure in a bed and room that are not his in a house that he doesn’t even really know the owner of. 

He’s glad she misinterprets his behavior for being tired and lazy or—probably more accurately—as just being drunk or very buzzed. A flicker of disappointment washes through him that he is not more sober to appreciate the moment of being alone with such a kind person who has not yet forcibly shoved him from her room. He debates going back downstairs where there’s more alcohol, more games and jokes and people, but the longer he’s in her bed, the more comfortable he grows. He uses his arms as a pillow beneath him. 

“Why aren’t you…party?” he asks, watching as she rolls the sleeves of her white shirt up, realizes there’s a small black cat in the corner of that shirt, too. “Like cats?”

“I’m not at the party because I didn’t want to have it here at my house,” she says and it takes Eren a moment to realize that the house does not belong to the blond with blue eyes like he’d thought. “My cousin wanted it here. He said something about being able to ‘monitor the guests better.’ I know who he wants to monitor, and it’s not the guests.” 

“Cats?” Eren repeats, reaching out to tug at the cat on her shirt. He’s trying to process why her face looks familiar when he sees it—the sharp angle of her eyes looks eerily similar to the angry looking man he’d seen downstairs and he’s almost sure he’s the cousin she’s referring to. 

“I just like them.” She moves the book off her bed and onto the nightstand before she sits down once more—near him, close enough to almost be considered next to him, but with enough distance that she can keep an eye on his movements. “You should go. I don’t want anyone thinking we’re doing anything.” 

“Friends will…find me,” he answers, reaching around his back pocket for his phone. He sees that he’s got four missed calls and six texts, mostly from Armin but one each from Jean and Connie as well. “Maybe I call them?” 

“That’s a good idea.” She watches him for a moment then sighs as she sees his fingers touching all the wrong buttons; he’s embarrassed that he was able to send a mostly-understandable text earlier but cannot seem to figure out how to dial properly now. She reaches over and plucks his phone from his fingers. “Who should I call?”

“Armin.” Eren watches her fingers mess around with his settings and he considers for a moment that, if she truly wanted, she could steal his phone and kick him out. Not that his phone is worth much, really, but it is his only source of texting and phone calls. When she puts the phone to her ear, he hears a muffled conversation and wants to reach out and tell her to speak up so he can hear Armin better. 

“He’ll be up in a minute. He said something about getting your friends in the car and then coming for you,” she says, though does not give him back his phone. She starts to flip through it and he’s embarrassed and slightly annoyed to see her going through his photos—he’s trying in vain to remember if he’s got anything personal in there. 

“My phone,” he says, reaching his hand out to try and take it back; it’s easy for her to move her hand and avoid his swiping. “Mine.” 

“My bed, my rules,” she reiterates. He’s only a bit drunk now and mostly just too tired to comment that he did not realize her rules extended to his items as well. Instead, he settles on scooting closer, his head practically in her lap, watching to see what she’s looking for on his phone. 

Her fingers leave his images—mostly full of his friends and stupid Instagram pictures, really—in favor of going to his music and playing around with some of the artists. Sometimes she plays a small clip of a song before moving on while other songs she skips entirely. Eren doesn’t realize that he has begun drift off to sleep until he feels a soft hand hesitantly touching his forehead, pushing some hair back behind his ear; it tickles him, sends a small shiver trickling down his neck and through his spine. 

“Sorry, have to wake you,” she murmurs and he realizes his phone in front of him, lying on the bed. She looks about to say something before realizing her hand is still in his hair, strands woven between her fingers; she pulls it back, mouth open to speak, when there’s a soft tap on her door. 

“Eren?” Armin’s voice sounds unsure and Eren’s positive Armin’s hoping he’s gotten the right room and not a room with an adventurous couple behind it. 

“He’s in here,” Mikasa answers, her hand dropping from his hair to her side. Lazily, Eren leans forward, nudging her hand back on top of his hair, hoping she’ll toy with it once more before he leaves. He supposes he should care more about propriety, but he’s too comfortable between her sheets and alcohol is still lingering in his veins, encouraging silly, last minute whims. 

The door opens and Armin steps in, staring wearily at the scene before him, eyes stopping to rest on the bandage clinging to his chin. He takes a few weary steps in, mumbling apologies about invading personal privacy before reaching out to heave Eren up, slinging one of his tired arms around Armin’s bony shoulders. 

“Thanks for keeping an eye on him,” Armin says, staring at Mikasa with an apologetic smile. “See you in class on Monday?” 

“See you on Monday,” she answers and hesitates before adding, “and bye, Eren.” 

“You’re friends?” Eren’s eyes are rapidly fading to sleep and he steals one last glance at Mikasa, who looks exceptionally pretty in the dim light. If only he’d had more time to talk to her. 

“How else did you think I knew there was a party here?” Armin replies, his tone indicating he wished he’d never said anything to his friends at all. “Time to get all the drunkards home now.” 

“Bye Mikasa,” is the last thing Eren recalls saying before being dragged to Armin’s car, pushed up against Connie in the backseat with Jean—who is not entirely sober but not entirely drunk anymore, either—in the front seat. His memory fails to recall any moments past falling asleep in the car; his dreams that night consist of black cats wearing pleated skirts, meowing in off-key notes.

When Eren awakens the next morning, his head pounding and body aching, he attempts to remember the night before, but only after he’s popped three aspirin and downed a glass of water. (Why does he never remember to stay hydrated when drinking?) When he gets a text from Jean an hour later, he’s only managed to recall parts of the night before: beer pong, blue eyes, being oddly nonchalant around some rubber ducks, and a bed more comfortable than his own with a dark skirt on top, speaking words to him. 

The text from Jean is simple— _Still alive?_ —but it does contain a picture with the text, and Eren is embarrassed to find that Jean has captured him forever more in an image of beer pong, his arm raised and leg poised. He’d look almost graceful if not for the way sweat is clearly pouring down his face and tongue sticking out at an awkward angle. As he’s attempting to erase the message—hopefully forever—from his phone, he accidentally clicks _Save Image_ instead of the large, red _Delete_ button beneath. 

He sighs, cracks his neck loudly in the kitchen and is momentarily grateful his parents have slept in this particular morning, unintentionally giving him room to think and rest. He flips to his pictures with the intent to delete the image and scrolls to the bottom. His finger is hovering above the intended snapshot when he sees a face in his photo album that he does not recall clearly but that looks familiar. He touches it instead, pulling up a surprising image of him asleep on the lap of a girl who has a small smile on her face; she is clearly the photographer of the shot. Her face shows her amusement at the situation and he sees, even through the grainy image, she has a hand on his head, touching him almost protectively. There is also a bandage on his chin in the picture and he skims his face in surprise; the bandage has come off but a scab remains. 

He can barely place her in the midst of his memories, but it isn’t until he zooms in on her, sees the folds of her skirt and the small cat in the corner of her shirt that he remembers needing to piss and somehow finding his way to her room where he no doubt thoroughly invaded any and all of her personal space. But, for the life of him, he can’t remember her name, only recalls seeing Armin talking to her briefly before they left. 

He pulls up Armin’s number and opens a new text. He attaches the image, adding text of his own this time: _Who is she?_

As if expecting his message so bright and early, Armin responds promptly, and Eren can almost see the smirk laced between the lines: _Meet me outside of my class Monday and I’ll introduce you two…again._

As Eren types out a reply— _thanks_ —his only thoughts now of how Monday seems so far away; he leaves his phone on the table in favor of putting on a movie, watching with mild interest as Catbus fills his screen. Monday seems an eternity when all he can think of is a pretty girl in a pretty skirt, gently waking him up from sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted an excuse to put Mikasa in cat stockings.
> 
> If I haven't finished your request, feel free to repost it! -- I've gotten a new laptop and have been lazy to transfer over my older files.


	20. Video

At eight months pregnant, Mikasa still considers herself perfectly capable of handling everyday tasks. She can vacuum, cook dinner, wash clothes and scrub the bathroom (minus the tub) with no issues—she’d still be at work, too, if she hadn’t been forced into maternity leave based on the concerns of her boss and coworkers, worried she might potentially injure herself. (She’d always thought she was a capable police officer who didn’t need coddling; she hadn’t even mentioned she was pregnant until Sasha joked about her gaining weight and looking a “little more plump” than usual.) 

It surprises her more than anyone that it is the television remote that takes her down. If she’s being fair, it isn’t her fault, but Eren’s.

Actually, she thinks as she sits cross-legged on the floor, resting her hands on her round stomach, this entire situation is Eren’s fault—the child inside her, the remote on the floor. _She_ would never carelessly drop the remote to the floor and leave it for a pregnant partner to pick up. Then again, she muses as she picks up the remote to twirl around in her hands, Eren _did_ have an emergency to attend to, and can she really blame her fiancé for going to help save the life of a child? 

As a pediatrician in an office with three others, his on-call time is a lot less than if he were practicing entirely by himself, but once in a while an emergency pops up and he has to leave. This is, of course, one of those nights. He’s already been gone an hour and now, at ten o’clock, she has forgone any hope of getting up on her own. The couch is too far unless she wants to backstroke against the carpet; they have no coffee table for her to latch on to since Eren opposed them entirely, claiming they were death traps begging to stub toes. 

At least with the television remote in hand, she’s able to turn on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, which certainly makes the entire ordeal a little more bearable. She’s so absorbed in watching an old rerun— _Are you really going to marry him, Izzie?_ —as if she’s never seen it before that she doesn’t notice when Eren comes home until she feels his hands on her head as he asks, “Is there a specific reason you’re on the floor?” 

“Someone,” she says, pulling her eyes away from the television, “left the remote on the ground. I can’t exactly bend over to get it, because there’s a small child in me, so I sat on the floor to get it.” 

“And didn’t think to get up?” Eren replies, amused as he pulls out his phone to answer a text that pings loudly. 

“See,” she says, trying to reach for a hand of his to pull herself up, finding herself more irritated when she realizes his hands are busy, “there’s no table to grab and I’m not going to crawl on my back to the couch.” 

“I see,” Eren answers, staring down at her, phone still out, not offering her a hand. 

“Well? Help me up, won’t you?” In a fit of annoyance or perhaps hormones, she crosses her arms, a small pout finding its way to her lips as she sees him smile wider. 

“Oh, but you look so cute like this…” Eren replies. Mikasa is horrified to see him angle his phone in a way that puts her directly in front of the phones camera. 

“Are you recording me?” Her voice takes on an uncharacteristically high-pitched tone. “Eren, I’m really going to kill you once I’m up.”

“I know,” Eren says, a bit too jovially, “that’s why I’m recording now, before my death.” 

It’s a short video, certainly no longer than thirty seconds of her pouting, before he tucks the phone away and pulls her up, bringing her close to his chest. His nose skims her neck, his lips placing apologetic kisses along her collarbone. “You looked cute, I couldn’t help it…”

“I hate you.” She sighs, loudly and dramatically for emphasis, before turning to kiss him, a welcome home tradition she’s never once forgotten. “You weren’t gone long. Nothing too serious, this time?” 

She can feel Eren’s smile against her skin, his teeth nipping softly down her neck, along her shoulder, his hands placed on either side of her stomach. “There’s nothing I can’t handle,” he says with such sincerity she wonders if he’s still talking about his job. 

“Missed you,” she says quietly, back arching as he lips tickle her skin some more, this time near the nape of her neck.

“Missed you more,” he answers, the honesty in his words apparent; she silently thinks to herself she’d sit on the floor for many more hours if it meant him always coming home to her like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original credit idea goes [here](http://shingekinoeremika.tumblr.com/post/122655283951/pregnant-mikasa-sitting-on-the-floor-only-to-later), to an anon user who had the super cute idea I couldn't resist writing up.
> 
> (I realize I've been writing a bit much on the pregnancy idea, hopefully that doesn't bother anyone!)


	21. Church

She’s beautiful.

Truly—she’s honestly, magnificently, spectacularly beautiful. 

Eren loves her. 

Truly—he loves Mikasa in the way flowers need sun, the way he needs coffee every morning before work. He loves her in a way he thinks she loves him, too. 

When the doors open and she steps out from behind the tall, white and chipped church doors, his throat closes and tightens, his nerves beginning to jump in the same familiar unease he’s always had from just being around her. She does that to him—brings out a sense of anxiety that should be unnerving but isn’t, because it’s her, because she’s wonderful and fantastic and he loves her. 

Her eyes glance around the room, a quick once over at the people who have shown up to commemorate such a special occasion. It’s not the most important event in her life but certainly one of her top. When her eyes catch his for the briefest of moments he sees nothing in her but a child, a small, lost child who’d played on the swings with him in their youth and had promised that if she ever got married it would only be to her best friend. 

“Me?” he’d asked, voice shaky and nervous, a little too high pitched. She hadn’t answered, had only smiled and pushed herself a little harder, a little faster, on her red, red, red swing. 

She steps forward once more, her white, satin gown trailing behind her, not long but not short, either. Her dress is delicate and formfitting and Eren wonders if she picked it or if someone else had. She always hated clothes that clung to her body—not for reasons of vanity but because she found it harder to move and stretch in clothes that held her too tightly.

She’d never complained when his arms had been around her—too tight, too hot, too full of every god damn emotion he couldn’t express with words. 

When she’s halfway down the aisle she pauses, as if her foot has caught on the runner beneath her, as if her mind has momentarily forgotten that people surround her in a filled church. Her eyes, large and round like a frightened doe’s, look frantic before they find his. Her face softens instantly and in that moment, that short, brief, wonderful moment, he remembers kissing her every night before bed in their apartment, remembers being twenty-two and not twenty-eight, when they had nothing but ramen for dinner every night while watching rented movies because they couldn’t afford cable. 

He remembers holding her during thunder when her eyes would go round as saucers and then pulling her into his arms ( _tight, tight, far too tight_ ) before she’d kiss his neck, always murmuring how much she loved him, adored him, couldn’t see herself without him.  
  
She seems to find her footing once more and her eyes leave his, her lips curling into a large smile as she looks around at the wedding party around him and then at the guests who have smiles bigger than hers aimed in her direction. His throat tightens a little more and he wills her to _look, look, just look back at me_ but her eyes don’t find his again. Her eyes, so pretty, round, so perfectly calm rest on her groom—ironically, one of his closest friends. 

With his eyes closed tight he tries to forget, to not remember when Jean and Mikasa had sat him down for lunch one breezy afternoon and Jean had said, with far too much care and sincerity, “Will you be my best man?” 

He’d looked at Mikasa, who’d smiled and shrugged her shoulders, said, “Jean really wanted it to be you.”

Cruel, it was unnecessarily cruel to him and he was sure she knew it. “Why…why didn’t you ask Marco?” 

Jean had flushed a faint pink and answered, “He’s going to be away that week. Can’t return his tickets to the Bahamas, apparently…” 

His eyes had tightened and he’d lowered his head and although he knew he should’ve been grateful for them asking him to take part in the wedding at all, all he could remember was Mikasa leaving the engagement ring he’d given her on the kitchen counter before she left two years prior. 

“I…I don’t think I can,” he’d finally answered, glancing at Mikasa, thinking of how only a few days before he’d taken her to dinner, bought her expensive wine before taking her to his apartment. _Work_ , she always told Jean, _I’m working late_.

“I know it’s a lot to ask with the history between you two,” Jean had said and Eren had tried not to laugh, to tell Jean it wasn’t over, was never really over, would probably never really be over between him and Mikasa. “And I know we haven’t always been…close, either. But it’d mean a lot. To both of us.” 

When his eyes open he finds she’s already at the end, close to him but not close enough, and her face has softened once more as they meet the eyes of her beloved, of the one who sends her flowers on her birthday and brings her tea when she’s sick. 

She loves Jean in a way he knows she does not love him. 

He thinks of the way she’d been wrapped around him in bed the night before, his red silk sheets her only clothing, the way she’d kissed his ear softly, softly, far too softly, and had said, “I will always love you. I just love him a little bit more.” 

“He’s not your best friend,” he’d answered her back, fingers tight on her hips, nails so deep they drew blood. “You’re marrying the wrong person.” 

He wonders now if Jean will see those marks on her hips later, if he’ll trace them with his fingers or tongue and ask how she got them. He wonders what lie Mikasa will spin to ease his concerns. 

Wonders if Jean will kiss her hips the way he kisses her lips after they’ve committed themselves with the traditional _I do_ s. 

It’s selfish and stupid and petty of him to not watch their kiss but he doesn’t, instead feigns interest in the sea of people that form their mutual friends and family. He closes his eyes and when he opens them is able to imagine for a moment—just a moment, a small, impossible moment—that he’s the one next to her, the one taking her hand down the aisle to lead her to their new life. Neither the bride nor the groom look back to wave at their wedding party and as much as Eren wills her to _look, look, just look once_ she doesn’t. 

His knees give out when the door closes behind them and all he’s left to see is the tall, white and chipped church doors, broad and looming, forbidding him to follow after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikasa came off a little more...cruel, I think, than I meant. I think I looked at it more as she wasn't being mean so much as indecisive and a little selfish. 
> 
> I apologize if updates become slower/longer, I've recently started an online class that's honestly incredibly time consuming and leaves me with no spare moment to write. 
> 
> Also--to the user _Joker_ , I did finish your request. It's under my other works titled _Numinous_. I hope you see this, because I don't have any other way to contact you!


	22. Eren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 user _miikasaa_ has an amazing drabbles series right [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1956315/chapters/4230768), and this part is based off of the ending of a three-part piece (chapters 1, 14, 23). It isn't necessary to have read them to understand this chapter, but there are a lot of references from them in it.

“Did he ever marry?” Mikasa asks, pausing mid-word on her laptop to glance over at Armin. They’re in his dining room, studying for upcoming exams, cramming last minute formulas and theories into their memory. 

She watches him place his pencil down on the table to meet her eyes with hesitance—she supposes she should have suspected as much, for talking about Eren is almost taboo between them, between any of them. 

In this life, Eren does not remember her; in their last life, she had not remembered him. 

“No,” Armin says quietly, thoughtful. “But he did have a son.” 

She’s ashamed for the joy she feels that he never loved another, never quite moved on from her in their last life. Certainly, she hopes, that despite not having remembered Eren previously, her past self would have wanted him to move on and be happy. The girl she is in this life does not wish the same.

She doesn’t remember her previous life at all, only has the words of those who have remembered in this life. Armin, who she remembered immediately in preschool, had also triggered many violent and unwanted thoughts for such her as a small child. Her parents had talked her through it, promised all the “monsters” weren’t going to hurt her again. 

Now, at twenty-three, she knew the truth of their past and so did Armin, who hadn’t remembered until sixth grade, almost seven years later. 

“But he didn’t marry?” she presses, her chest constricting painfully at the thought of him sleeping with anyone else, of _loving_ anyone else enough to create a child with them. 

Armin’s eyes narrow and he replies, “No, but you did.” It seems unnecessarily harsh from his normally docile attitude and he must see the emotions splay across her face, for he says, quietly, “I’m sorry. I still remember him watching you move on and have a family—a life—without him. It was very…difficult to watch him go through.”

Mikasa bites her lip, runs a hand through her hair. “Did I…I had children?” 

Armin hesitates once more before nodding and answering, “A daughter. You named her Carla.” 

Her eyes widen a fraction and there’s little else she can think of to say besides, “Oh.” 

“I think Eren believed some part of you would remember eventually. Whether you named her that because you remembered the name or just wanted to, I don’t know. But he died believing you would remember him at some point.” 

Ironic that Eren had remembered her when she could not recall him and now with the tables turned her only true concern is the very real possibility that Eren might not ever gain back the memories of her—of _them_ —in this life. She can’t imagine a life where she won’t be able to fall into his arms again, to sleep by his side, to have a chance at everything they’d never gotten. 

Eren must’ve felt the same way, too. 

She watches Armin pick up his pencil again and go back to studying math, but she can’t seem to bring herself to finish writing her essay. Instead, she finds herself staring at Armin, who keeps pushing up his reading glasses up to the bridge of his nose; she wants to tell him he looks quite adorable with them on and although she knows she shouldn’t ask it, she does anyway—“You haven’t found Annie yet, have you?” 

His hand stops once more and she sees his knuckles turn a shade of white before he shakes his head. When he looks up at her, she’s startled by the grief that’s evident in them. “I haven’t found her.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“—Yet. Whether I meet her in this life or the next, I’m sure I’ll find her.” 

Mikasa takes the ends of her hair and twirls them around her fingers, asking, “Did you stay together last time?” 

This seems to perk up Armin a bit, for when he says, “We never married, but we did live together,” he says it with such excitement that she would never mistake him for anything but having been truly in love with her. 

She regrets that she did not get that with Eren. 

“How can Eren not remember me?” She looks at Armin, pleading in a way she has not in many years. 

“Eren asked me almost that same question,” Armin replies, slowly. “I told him that maybe there’s no guarantees about the memories returning.” 

Mikasa thinks of Eren, of him distraught and begging Armin for the answer to the very question she’d just asked. She wonders if it hurts Armin to be placed in the middle, always the one to have to calm his friends down. As he picks up his pencil once more, her mind wanders, drifts off to try to imagine where the last few of their friends might be.

They’d found most of them—Marco, Jean, Connie, Sasha, and, of course, Eren. On their list of people yet to be discovered is Reiner, Bertolt, and Annie. Levi is also on the list of discovered people, for he always seems destined to be connected to her in some form—he’d been her cousin this time and Armin had told her he’d been similarly last time as well. 

It isn’t until a few days later when she’s with Armin, grabbing a pastry from the new bakery across from school after their last exam, that Armin says, “Annie didn’t want you to meet Eren. She tried hard to keep you away.” 

“Did she?” Mikasa takes her croissant and sits down at the table closest to them, Armin following with a strudel and sitting across from her. She splits it in half before eating it, deciding that it’s decent and perhaps this new place isn’t too bad. 

“You were pretty persistent, though.” Armin takes a bite of his pastry before laughing and saying, “Eren wanted your attention so bad… The first time he saw you, he tripped on purpose so you’d help him.”

“Did it work?” As she runs a hand through her hair she laughs, trying to imagine Eren desperately vying for her attention. 

“You helped him up, so I guess it worked.” Armin smiled again, though it faltered and he added, “Mikasa, I’m telling you this because… Eren would’ve wanted you to know he loved you in every life.” 

The sigh that slips past her lips is inevitable and unavoidable. “I wish I’d remembered him last time.” 

She’s watching over Armin’s shoulder as he begins to tell her about his last exam, about how it was difficult and he was grateful they’d studied together when she sees a figure over his shoulder—the form shouldn’t stick out to her but it does, because the blonde hair that appears from a bathroom door behind Armin catches her off guard immediately. When her eyes lock with a bright blue a moment later she’s startled, though she supposes she’s nowhere near as surprised as Annie, who has immediately directed her attention to the blonde across from her. 

“Ah… Mikasa?” Armin’s voice is quizzical and he raises a hand to flash it across her eyes. “Do you feel okay?” 

“Armin?” Annie’s voice is loud, far too loud for the quiet bakery, but the anxiety in her voice is apparent, as though she can’t believe she’s seeing him. There’s a moment, brief and quick, where Armin’s eyes widen before he turns. It’s a split second before he’s out of the chair and _oh_ , the jealousy Mikasa feels at seeing them hug a moment later nearly eats her alive. 

“I didn’t know—I’ve been looking—” Armin’s voice waivers and Mikasa thinks he might cry; the moment is far too intimate and she’s embarrassed to be watching. She goes back to picking at her croissant, though not before noticing that Annie is wearing the bakery’s employee outfit, a baby blue apron that she’s surprised to see her in. 

“Where have you been this whole time?” Annie asks, her voice harsh, but relief seeping through; she’s kissing him with uncanny softness and Mikasa is embarrassed to find her own face flushing. 

“I just started at the university here with Mikasa—oh!” Armin looks back at Mikasa and then to Annie and says, “She remembers.” 

Mikasa isn’t sure if she imagines the way Annie’s eyes soften or if it’s a trick of the light, but says, “I remember our past. I don’t…remember the life we had last time.” 

Annie nods, a quick, rushed motion before Armin takes her hand and he says, “Mikasa and I found everyone but you, Reiner, and Bertolt a long time ago… It took them all a while to remember, but most of them remember.”

“Most?” Annie asks as she glances at Mikasa once more. “Bertolt and Reiner remember, too. They found me in high school. They’d found each other a year or two before.” 

“Eren,” Armin clarifies after a moment. “He doesn’t remember. But I’m glad…everyone else does.”

“Oh,” Annie says after a moment and Mikasa wonders if she’s thinking of the last life where she’d tried to protect Eren from Mikasa. 

“I think I should leave you two alone for a while,” Mikasa finally says as the moment becomes far too uncomfortable to her; Armin and Annie have too much to catch up on and there will always be more time for her to see the pair later. It pains her, for she wants to stop and talk, to catch up, but it hurts more to see the feelings pass between the two; it is a reminder that Eren does not remember her, not yet, maybe not ever.

“Please, stay,” Armin tries, but Mikasa smiles, waves him off. “We’ll meet for dinner tomorrow? I think you two should…talk. There’s a lot that’s happened.” 

She leaves after giving the two a hug, albeit it awkwardly with Annie, before stepping outside, croissant forgotten. It’s stupid of her, she thinks, as she’s walking along the street, knowing full well that going to see Eren when she’s worked up like this is an awful idea, but she misses him, his smile, his laugh, the overreactions to everything. After walking around for ten minutes, she finds herself in front of a flower shop and it’s horribly cliché, she thinks, that he would work here, but he does, and she hesitates, unsure if she should enter.

She had been the first person to see Eren, but not the first to talk to him; she’d come in with Connie a little over a year ago when he’d wanted to buy Sasha flowers and had pleaded for her to come, said he needed, “A girls brain on these things,” and she’d reluctantly agreed. They’d both been horribly shocked to see Eren behind the register, eyes bright and happy, who greeted them with smiles so large Mikasa was sure he’d remembered them.

Until, of course, he’d said, “How may I help you?” 

Connie had spoken first, although it’d take him a while, and his voice had been shaking. “I, um… Flowers, for my friend. She likes wildflower-types…I think.”

Mikasa hadn’t been of any use to Connie that day and had, in fact, spent most of the afternoon staring at Eren so intently she was sure he’d ask her to stop; he dealt with her staring with a surprising amount of grace, although did raise a brow at her a few times. 

Leaving him had been the hardest thing to do, and, before they left, she hadn’t been able to resist asking him, “Do you li—go to school around here, too?”

Eren had smiled, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m taking a break right now. I finished my bachelors already but…I just wanted to do something relaxing for a little bit. I’m studying to be a surgeon.” 

Of course, she thought, for he never strayed far from the medical and sciences field. “Oh,” she’d said, “that’s nice. I’m sure we’ll see you around.”

He’d smiled, nodded, waved goodbye, and it’d nearly broken her heart in two to leave him there. 

But now there is little she can do but pray that Eren is working today, hope that he’s willing to talk to her and for her to see if maybe, just maybe, she can convince him to go on a date with her. While she isn’t sure that Eren will ever truly know her in this life—after all, like Armin said, there seems to be no guarantees that they’ll always remember each other—she resolves that if she can’t make memories with her Eren, maybe she can try to make new memories with this one, this man who laughs and smiles and sounds just like her Eren. 

With confidence that she does not truly feel, she opens the door to the flower shop, breathes in the magnolias and roses and smiles wide when she hears a voice, so warm and familiar, ask, “May I help you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no scarf mention here because Eren was never able to give her one in this life. (Although I like to imagine he did later and perhaps remembered her far down the line.)


	23. Chemistry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically a small continuation of chapter 19 (alcohol), aka the chapter when Eren is drunk, needs a bathroom, and finds Mikasa in her room readying.

“Do you really need to study now?” Eren’s voice is a high-pitched whine and Mikasa can’t help the roll of her eyes. Ignoring him, she returns back to her laptop, attempting to study for her upcoming organic chemistry exam. It’s worth far too much of her grade to ignore for much longer and if she’s honest, she’s been spending far too much time with Eren lately and not nearly enough time focusing on school. 

“Mikasa,” Eren tries again, his voice louder this time, “can’t you do it tomorrow?” 

“No,” she murmurs, absorbed in her textbook. “I have work after school tomorrow. There won’t be any time.” 

She pulls her legs up onto the computer chair beneath her, crossing them in a rather unladylike manner, her skirt hiking up farther than it ought to at the motion. She supposes it’s okay, though, for there’s only Eren in the room with her and anyway, she’s got stockings on. She twirls a pencil in her hand and stares idly at the wall in front of her for a moment, knowing she ought to get back to studying but finding herself so terribly bored already, only ten minutes after opening her book. 

She hears Eren turn on her television behind her and she sighs at the noise, turning to stare at her boyfriend who has made himself rather comfortable on her large bed. The quick motion causes her glasses to slip down her nose and she sighs once more, louder this time.

“I’m glad you finally got glasses. They’re pretty hot, you know.” If Eren’s suggestive tone is any indication to what he wants, she knows she’s got no more than five minutes to avoid the inevitable—if she’s lucky. She turns back to her laptop and makes a point to not answer him. 

“Mika.” Eren’s voice is surprisingly close and she knows he’s gotten off the bed. Still, she jumps when she feels his hands on her shoulders. 

“Yes, Eren?” She turns once more to look up at him, her eyes automatically drawn to his mouth from the angle—oh, one kiss would be lovely and certainly not too distracting from her work… 

She’s sure he notices her staring by the way his lips curl and he leans down to kiss at the corner of her mouth. He peppers more across her face before finding her lips and she knows she’s fighting a losing battle when his hands move to hold her waist. 

“My exam, Eren…” she starts, shivering at the way he nips her lower lip. 

“I think I need to do some _studying_ of my own,” he murmurs back, clearly amused, obviously entertained by his own joke. He falls to his knees behind her, grabbing her chair and turning it to face him, her crossed legs now in front of him. 

“How…?” She doesn’t bother to try to hide the way her voice rises high as he leans in, biting at her thigh through the sheer stockings covering her. 

“These stupid stockings,” Eren says, his breath warm and far too close to where she’d really like him to be placing his mouth. “They’re too damn cute.” 

She can’t help but remember that she’d worn a pair very similar to the first time she’d met him, though that pair had been black and these were white. At the top, hidden beneath her skirt, the stockings ended with cat ears, and it was these that Eren was now tracing with his tongue. (She’d liked the black ones much better, but Eren had accidentally torn them the first time they’d slept together, far too excited to realize the material was so thin and delicate.) 

She doesn’t realize the way she shifts her hips closer to him until Eren is smiling, playful as he says, “Oh, I didn’t realize you were so eager for me to help you study.” 

Her face flushes and she moves to sit up straighter, to turn herself around and face her desk once more, when Eren stops her, pulling her chair closer to him again. He leans in, breathes softly against the skin inside her thighs till she’s squirming in his grasp, before he sighs in a way that’s far too pleased and content. 

“There’s still so much for me to study, too,” he says into her skin, and it’s the last sentence she really pays attention to; they spend the rest of the day _studying_ , her exam forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something quick and small! I'll probably be MIA for at least another week or so until my summer class finishes.


	24. Church II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is basically the chapter _Church_ told from Mikasa's perspective. I didn't like how she seemed so malicious in that chapter and kind of wanted to give her a backstory of her own. While I don't think it's necessary to have read the chapter, this will probably make a lot more sense if you do (or at least skim it).

Eren is wonderful. 

Truly—he’s wonderful in a way she knows she is not. 

She loves him.

Truly—she loves him in the way plants depend on water, in the way she habitually calls him every Wednesday night to discuss their favorite television program. (Even _after_ she marries Jean this continues, because tradition holds tight between them.)

It was unnecessarily cruel for Jean to ask Eren to be his best man. If she’s honest, she would have preferred Eren not attend her wedding at all, to witness what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life and yet what felt strangely like the worst. 

Before she’d walked down the aisle she’d asked for him. She’d begged one of the caterers passing by for the reception after to _please go find the best man, Eren Yeager_ , but the young man, no older than herself, had said that all the members of the wedding were already out, already waiting on her arrival down the aisle. It was devastating for her, to know she would no true opportunity to explain herself, for now when she saw him, alone or otherwise, she’d be a married woman. 

It hadn’t been easy for her to walk down the aisle and though her pause half-way down the runner had felt like it lasted for hours, it was certainly no longer than a few seconds, but those seconds had allowed her time to find Eren, to meet his reassuring gaze and oh, the relief she felt was palpable. In a dress that she had not picked out, that she’d decided on at the insistence of her mother even though it was too tight, made her itch uncomfortably, and was far too outdated for her tastes, she noticed none of those things from the look in Eren’s eyes. It was a look that spoke to her on so many levels, but she read it clearly enough: _I love you and you look beautiful_. 

She supposes she should have been more discrete about her staring at Eren—Jean would later ask on their honeymoon why she’d paused to stare behind him and not at him—but for as much as she loved Jean, he did not bring the same feeling of _home_ as Eren did.

Marrying Jean was a mistake done out of feelings of worthlessness. Truly, when she’d left the apartment shared with Eren at the age of at twenty-two, her engagement ring on what had been their kitchen counter for over a year, she’d had little intention of staying in Eren’s life afterwards. She’d felt at the time that she wasn’t in a place to be with Eren—she could no longer handle cup noodles for dinner every night and the stress of worrying about if their water and electricity was paid. It was not a life she felt she could attempt to live any longer. It was only through Jean, who’d decided to send her a text almost six months after their breakup, that Eren’s world was reintroduced back into her life. 

Jean, who knew that she’d loved Eren since elementary school, understood winning her over wouldn’t be an easy task. In reality, her letting Jean—one of Eren’s closest friends—into her life had been a selfish move, initially done primarily with the intent of being able to find out how Eren was handling life without her.

“He’s shit,” Jean told her the first time Mikasa asked after Eren’s health. “He does’t really hang out with anyone and he’s started skipping days at work. I think he’s about to fail a class, too…” _He misses you_ , is what Jean failed to say, but it was the elephant in the room neither of them spoke about.

It had been six months into dating Jean and a little over a year into her breakup with Eren when she reached back out to him. From what she could gather, he hadn’t improved much in getting a grip on himself but was making baby steps to getting better. Perhaps it was completely selfish of her to bring herself back into his life right as he was getting a hold on living without her.

But she missed him, missed him terribly.

She’d logged on to Facebook and sent a simple message saying, “I know it’s been a long time, but I hope you’re doing well.” She’d thought about adding something more— _I still think of you every night_ —but decided it was too personal. She’d sent the message, small and to the point, and hadn’t received a reply till later in the evening, well past midnight.

“I’m okay. I hope you’re doing well.” 

Her heart had thudded in her chest, loud and deep, and she’d pried herself away from Jean’s arms in bed to go into their living room to answer. “I am.” She’d almost sent it before adding, “Can we…meet up sometime? I think there’s things we should talk about.”

This reply from him had taken considerably longer and she’d fallen asleep waiting for it, had only woken up from Jean gently shaking her shoulders and kissing her forehead, asking, “Why are you in the living room?” 

“It got hot in bed.” The lie had come too easily but it was through those chains of events that she’d found herself reconnecting with Eren. Their first meeting after had been sufficiently awkward and full of tears that pricked their eyes; neither of them had eaten their food but had left agreeing to see each other once more, having discussed little beyond their current state of affairs. 

Neither of them talked about her relationship with Jean and nor did they mention Eren’s continued friendship with him. It was easier that way, to ignore what was so blatant and in front of them. 

When Jean had proposed to her, she hadn’t thought twice to say yes, because she loved Jean, loved Jean in a way that she had always loved Eren. But her and Eren were like oil and water, unable to mix properly, unable to find a way to combine to make something beautiful. They were an ugly pair, filled with more screaming than laughter, and they’d been forced to acknowledge that neither of them were the vivacious twenty-year-old versions of themselves they’d been when they’d initially met and began to date.

Jean and her melded perfectly, meshed in a way that was lovely and comforting. Jean wasn’t home—no, that would always be Eren—but he was a sense of reality, a sense of stability. 

It was purely coincidental the first night her and Eren had slept together again was the night before Jean’s proposal; the irony continued, all the way up until their last tryst the night before her wedding. 

_Selfish_ is what she labels herself as, unable to end things entirely with either one, unable to choose who is truly best for her. It’s hard for her to forget the way his face crumpled as he practically begged her not to marry Jean the next day, not to commit herself to the other man. 

“I will always love you,” she’d said. “I just love him a little bit more.”

What a lie, told so believably that even Eren did not question her. (But if he had—she truly wishes he’d had the courage to plead once more.) She’d fallen asleep in his arms, wrapped in the red silk sheets that had once belonged to both of them. She’d left before he’d woken, leaving a small note that red, “Thank you,” before darting off to get ready for what was supposed to be the biggest day of her life.

“I lost the baby,” she says quietly to Eren one evening, only a few months after her marriage to Jean. His arms are around her as she buries her face in his neck, willing herself to cry and feel remorse, but all she feels is relief. _Relief_ because she did not know whom the father was, _relief_ because she will not yet have to pick between the two men she loves most. It’s only a matter of time, truly, and she knows that. It’s easy for her to lie to Jean—trusting, loving, _devoted_ Jean—and tell him she’s working late, that she slept in her office, that she’ll see him the next day, all that while falling between the sheets with Eren. 

“I’m sorry,” Eren says, with no true sadness and it stings her in a way she had not originally thought it would, but can she truly blame him? The child had as much chance being his as it did Jean’s and it would not want to mourn a being not his. 

“Maybe it’s better that way,” she answers, quiet, before wrapping her arms around Eren’s neck for him to lift her. He does so with surprising ease, not at all like the struggle he used to have before, and she wonders if he works out in the time they are not together. 

He carries her to his— _their_ —bed, laying her down before helping her take off her pants, leaving her in nothing but an undershirt and underwear, a pair of red boyshorts she’s particularly fond of. 

She stretches, arching her hands high above her head, and jumps when she feels Eren’s hands skim across her abdomen; it’s particularly sore from the loss but she bites her tongue, lets his hands touch her in a way that only a true lover can. His hands, rough and calloused, are welcome; but still she jumps once more when she feels his lips against her skin, kissing below her bellybutton, and even she must fight back tears. 

“We should stop this,” she whispers, trying to pretend she does not feel wetness against her stomach, tries to ignore that Eren might be more upset over a potentially lost child than initially thought. He is quiet, attempting to still the shake of his shoulders that rattles her body. With hesitance, she reaches down to thread fingers through his hair, to gently tug and pull with as much reassurance as she can. 

“Maybe it would be better that way,” he finally says, so quiet she almost misses the words, almost does not hear them as they fall away into the increasing darkness of the room. 

“But I like it better this way,” she answers, a truth said so softly that Eren does not hear her; her words fall onto his deaf, tired ears, and her last memory of him before she falls asleep his mouth against her skin, his arms around her waist, holding so tightly, she’s sure he thinks she’ll be gone once again when he wakes.


	25. Kindergarten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this chapter is dedicated to ao3 user _miikasaa_ , who wrote a beautiful chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1956315/chapters/10610010) that inspired this chapter of my own. The chapters are unrelated, but--as always--I highly recommend reading their drabble series! (To aforementioned user: You're a doll and I'm sorry that this chapter took far too long. ❤) 
> 
> Secondly, the reason I've been so MIA is because I've picked up a second job, so I'm now essentially working seven days a week, on top of school, and (little-known fact!) taking care of my three-year-old son. So my hands are often tied up and busy in fifty other places! 
> 
> I have no intentions of dropping my drabbles and I hope updates will become more frequent again.

The first day of kindergarten for her son is hot; Mikasa can feel herself beginning to perspire despite the fact that she’s in a pencil skirt and a loose blouse for work later. Jean’s arm is loosely wrapped around her waist and he’s smiling as his other hand holds their child’s, guiding him towards his new classroom and his new second-grade teacher. Neither she nor Jean has met him yet, are only aware that his last name is Arlert and that he’s supposedly very kind with the children. 

“I’m glad,” Jean says in an excited whisper intended only for her ears, “that we could both go in late to work today to walk him to class.” 

“I wasn’t sure I could get any time off,” she subtly apologizes. “It’s been hectic lately…” As a local defense attorney, her work often followed her home, invading her nighttime dreams and daytime actions, seeping into all personal and private parts of her life. 

She’s twenty-seven and Jean has recently turned twenty-nine; they’ve been married a little over a year, their son having just turned five over summer in June. His appearance mimics hers, his dark hair framing a circular face with eyes that often seem far too lost for such a small face. But she sees Jean in his personality more so than hers, particularly in his quick temper to lose patience with things he finds disagreeable. 

She adores him more than anyone, truly, and as they approach the classroom Jean’s hand lessons on hers and he kneels down by their son, whispering in his ear words of comfort she cannot hear. Her son smiles and leans in to kiss Jean’s cheek before he turns and reaches for her, arms open wide.

She resists the urge to embarrass him with a thousand kisses, instead hugging him tightly as she says, “I love you. We’ll be here to pick you up as soon as school is over, okay?” 

He seems confident and nonplussed; she almost wishes he would show an ounce of fear but then again, she reminds herself, he seems to hold parts of her in him as well, laced between Jean’s hot temper. The confidence, she believes, must’ve certainly come from her side of the family. 

“I’m going to talk to him alone near the class for a second, if that’s okay?” Jean says in a way that seems almost sheepish. 

“Talk between two men?” she teases, stepping back as her son takes her husbands hand.

“Fatherly advice.” 

“Don’t make him late, school starts in less than ten minutes.” It’s not until she’s waved Jean off that she hears a cry behind her—loud, sharp, and familiar in the way that she’s accustomed to with a small child of her own. 

“Oh, you fell again,” she hears a man say, a sigh creeping in between his words. “It’s okay, I’ll help you up.”

She turns, a knowing ‘it happens to all parents’ smile plastered on her face. Behind her, she’s meet with the scene of a peculiar looking man on his knees, glasses perched on his nose, with a small, wailing child sitting on the concrete in front of him. 

“Mommy,” he says, pushing the man’s hands away from his. “I want mommy.” 

“Oh, why isn’t Carla ever around when I need her…” The man straightens his back up and says, in a way clearly meant to be comforting, “You’ll see mommy today after school. She’ll come pick you up with me. I promise.”

“But I want her now!” The child’s wailing has begun to grow louder, attracting the attention of other nearby parents and children. Students who had previously looked excited appear to grow instantly anxious, clinging to parents’ legs and arms at the sight of another classmate so visibly upset. 

Mikasa turns, looking for Jean and her son, only to find them both still near his teachers door; her son hasn’t even turned his head to the crying child as far as she can tell and, for that, she’s relieved. 

“Sir?” She steps forward with hesitance. “Do you mind if I…try?” 

The man looks at her, sweat lacing his forehead and prickling at the collar of his button-up shirt. He assesses her—looking at her work attire, she assumes—before standing up to introduce himself.

“Grisha….Grisha Yeager,” he says. “This is my son, Eren. My wife couldn’t make it today and I got sent instead…” 

“It happens. My son is in the same class as him,” she replies, attempting to smile sincerely; she’s far too used to plastering on fake ones for other litigators and has to force a genuine one for the sake of appearing friendly. (She reminds herself that she’s doing this for the benefit of the other children who are progressively looking more upset by the loud, disrupting child in front of her.) 

She kneels a moment later, awkwardly balancing on the heels of her shoes, which now seem inappropriately high for the situation, and says, in as nice a voice as she can muster, “Hi, are you Eren?”

The silence from the child is near deafening and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick upwards, immediately for his fathers. Silence, Mikasa decides, is encouraging, and far better than the screaming that has been going on for almost five minutes. 

“You miss your mommy, right?” she asks, though her smile this time is warm and familiar, as if talking to her own child. “I know it’s hard without your mommy and she misses you too, I’m sure. But the day will go fast and you can go home to her soon after, okay?” 

When Eren finally lifts his head to meet her eyes, the green ones that find her own startle her; there’s an odd sense in her that she’s seen them before, though she knows it to be impossible for she’s never met either of these two people in her life. 

“Are you a mommy?” Eren asks, sniffling quietly. “Like mine?” 

“I am a mommy,” she says, shifting her weight a little to the other side. “My son is in your class, too. Maybe you can play together today, he doesn’t know anyone yet.”

“He’ll play with me?” Eren seems skeptical and she thinks, briefly, if he continues this way in life, he might make a great attorney one day. 

She nods her head reassuringly, standing up and straightening her skirt before saying, “You’ll be great friends, I’m sure. But first you have to introduce yourself. Do you see the man talking to the boy by the door? That’s my husband and my son. Maybe you and your dad can go say hello.” 

Eren, still staring with blatant skepticism, stands and reaches for his father’s hand. Grisha appears relieved and excited at once as he says, “I think that’s a great idea!”

Mikasa, relieved that at another crisis has been averted, breathes a sigh of relief as the pair walk away. She doesn’t think twice to wave when Grisha turns back to her before leaving and says, “Thank you, Mikasa.” 

It’s all in a days work, she figures, and she’s dealt with far worse. When Jean returns she tells him the story and listens to how Grisha approached them, how Eren and her son seemed to click and picked spots next to each other inside the class. It isn’t until later, when she’s wrapped in Jean’s arms in bed for an afternoon rendezvous, that she realizes she never told Grisha her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept from this was entirely inspired by the aforementioned chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1956315/chapters/10610010).


	26. Breathe

Mikasa couldn’t breathe and it was one of the few times in her life where she truly felt dying would have been preferable to the anxiety that was eating at her, taking large pieces of soul with every wave of nausea and panic. Eren’s hold around her waist should have been comforting and soothing, should have calmed and put her nerves to rest, but he knew as well as she did that tonight his embrace would not bring the solace she needed.

In the middle of his new room in his new house filled with new furniture, the only comforting familiarity are the trinkets on his bedside she’d seen for years in his childhood room—a carved wooden elephant she’d given him when she’d returned from a trip to Africa with her family, a jade bracelet he’d never worn but stood for luck from her mother, and a comb he refused to acknowledged was useless with all its missing teeth and still used daily.

But in this moment, it’s impossible for her to focus on the objects when all she can think of is that this house is not a house she knows. It is not the house she spent nights watching movies in with Eren and Armin, kissing Eren quickly between Armin’s bathroom breaks. It is not the house where she sprained her ankle running up the stairs at the age of eight, chasing after Eren and Armin who had said, “No girls allowed!” before running off. 

It is not the house where she fell in love with her best friend; it’s not the house where they decided, three years in to dating at the ages of twenty-three, that the love they shared was more platonic than romantic. 

It’s possible, she thinks with tears staining Eren’s sweater, they rushed the decision, should have tried harder to be more successful together. 

It hadn’t bothered her when Eren began to date again (hadn’t she, too?) but she’d never considered for a moment Eren would like—let alone love—someone else enough to even remotely entertain the idea of being with them forever, a lifetime that she had somehow always assumed would be his and hers together. 

This is a house that is not made of memories of him and her. It is a house made of new memories that she is not a part of, filled with love and laughter that did not come from them together. It aches in a way she is not familiar with and it occurs to her that perhaps a largely hidden, deep rooted hope in her had prayed they’d find a way to make it work, that fate would always somehow draw them back together. 

“It’s okay, Mika,” Eren tries weakly, knowing his words are like small drops of water attempting to put out a large fire. “You’ll still see me all the time.”

She can think of nothing to say, instead tries to wipe the tears away, tries to not think about the engagement party going on downstairs, filled with people wishing him and his bride-to-be well. She tries to forget about the waiters walking around his living room the size of her apartment, all of them carrying trays of expensive wine or champagne or both, because Eren is marrying a woman who is as intelligent as her parents are wealthy—that is to say, very. 

She tries very, very hard not to think of her one bedroom apartment where she lives with her cat and finds herself almost surprised at her selfishness; Jean is no doubt out there waiting for her, a glass of white wine in hand, wanting to ask her thoughts about Eren’s new home—his new mansion. He does not know that she has harbored very improper feelings of love for Eren throughout the years and would no doubt be devastated if he were to ever learn the seeds had taken root and bloomed fully.

“This place doesn’t feel like home,” she says through a sniffle, attempting to disengage herself from his arms. 

“It’s _my_ home,” Eren reminds her gently, reaching out to playfully pinch at her cheeks in an attempt to crack a smile out of her. “You can come over any time still, you know.”

“No, I can’t,” she murmurs while thinking of his fiancée, a woman whose name starts with a ‘w’ that she can’t recall—Wendy, Willow? What would this woman say if she were to see Mikasa making herself at home on her couch, in her kitchen, on her bed? Nothing pleasant, she’s sure. 

Mikasa also realizes that she knows very little about his bride. In retrospect she’s sure that it’s intentional, that she’d been avoiding becoming too close to any of Eren’s girlfriends for fear of realizing how much he truly cared about any of them. This one had clearly wheedled her way in to his heart; it devastates her that she can’t even remember the woman’s name and yet Eren has given a part of himself to her that had once been Mikasa’s.

She takes a few steps away from him, pushing his arms aside when he attempts to reach out for her once more. 

“I think I need go home,” she says, straightening her posture, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

“No, no, stay,” Eren is insisting, following behind her as she goes to open the door and leave. “There’s some expensive white wine downstairs with some kind of fancy tarte aux pommes, whatever those are, that Whitney insisted would be great tog—”

 _Whitney_. That’s her name. Hearing it sounds so formal, so official, that Mikasa pretends not to hear his pleas as she goes down the stairs. Eren stops calling after her when she’s halfway down the stairs, no doubt wanting to avoid making a scene. Mikasa finds she’s relieved to see that Jean is weaving through the crowds in what is a blatant attempt to find her.

She waves him down and when he notices her, a smile cracks wide across his face. 

“I’ve been looking for you for the past twenty minutes,” he says to her in a quiet whisper into her ear as he embraces her; his glass is thankfully almost empty and doesn’t spill over the edges. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs back, plucking the glass from him and placing it on a passing waiters tray. She’s pacing back and forth now, glancing around to see if she can spot Eren’s dark hair among the partygoers. “Eren was showing me around.”

“Upstairs?” Jean asks and Mikasa can’t tell if he’s curious or suspicious or a mix of the two. 

“They remodeled the bathrooms upstairs and he wanted to show it off, I think.” It surprises even her how easy the lie comes. “Maybe we should head out? I’m not feeling too well, I’m a bit nauseous.”

“Sure you’re not pregnant?” Jean teases and an awkward pause extends between them before he clears his throat. He’s avoiding her gaze as he murmurs, “Sorry… We’re going to miss the toast but I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Mikasa smiles and though it doesn’t reach her eyes it’s obvious Jean doesn’t notice, a bit buzzed from the champagne still she assumes. She leans over to place a half-hearted kiss on his cheek as she says, “I said my farewells upstairs, meet me at my car in ten?”

When Jean leaves to find Eren and—and…well, the woman whose name starts with a ‘w,’ Mikasa takes the chance to find her way to the door, cracking it open and slipping out quietly. She’s sure she hears Eren’s voice calling after her; but when she turns at the last second, eyes scanning quickly through those closest to her, she doesn’t see the one face she’s looking for. 

She breathes out deeply as the door closes behind her and tries to imagine that this is her house, her home, and that in a few hours she’ll be returning to Eren’s arms. She doesn’t think about the woman inside the house he’s kissing, that he’s raising a glass to, that he’s professing his undying love for. She doesn’t let her mind wander to her own date, who no doubt is already imagining his own engagement party with her. 

When Jean gets in her car a few minutes later, she starts the engine, making a point to mentally tell herself not look back as she reverses and drives off; still, in a moment of weakness, her eyes glimpse her rear view mirror. She finds she’s both relieved and disappointed to see nothing but the large house fading in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had an itch to write lately.. Probably related to the latest SNK chapter.


	27. Constellations

“Do you think there’s ever going to be a way to touch the sky?” Eren asks Mikasa one evening after dinner when they’re laying together under the stars. At age nine, it’s one of the many curiosities that Eren has. 

It’s really too cold for them to be outside without sweaters on but neither of them seem to notice, a blanket beneath them protecting them from the dew forming on the grass. 

“In the future, maybe,” Mikasa answers, one hand behind her propping her up as her other makes designs with the lights in the sky, mentally giving them all names: _The Commander, The Roses, The Wings_. 

They don’t speak about why they look at stars so often, about the desire to know the world outside of the walls. Looking upwards in to what seems like infinity is oddly comforting; there’s no walls, no boundaries up in the sky. 

Eren prefers to look at the clouds during the day but knows Mikasa has a preference for the stars at night. He’d asked her about it, once. She’d quieted down for a moment before telling him, “You know they tied me up after they killed my parents. All I saw were clouds out the window for what seemed like hours when I woke up. I don’t think it was, but it felt like it.” 

He’d never felt the need to ask her about it again. 

“If I ever go up there, you can come too. And Armin,” Eren tells her, pointing his finger upwards into the sky, tracing his own patterns. She wonders what he names them, _if_ he names them the way she does. 

She tugs the scarf around her neck tighter, covering her mouth and nose. Her words are muffled as she says, “Can I pick where we land?” 

Eren’s nose crinkles and she’s grateful for the scarf that hides her smile. He sighs, loudly and dramatically, before saying, “Fine, but I get to fly us there.” 

“What will Armin do, if I pick the place and you’re flying us?”

“He’ll be the one to get us the directions there,” Eren says with such confidence that it leaves her no room to doubt his plan. He turns to her and smiles, so wide and large she feels her face flush beneath the scarf. 

Mikasa lowers her eyes, chews on her lower lip, thinking about his plan. Finally, with some reluctance but not much, she says, “Okay, I’ll go.” 

“Great!” Eren starts, immediately beginning to tell her about his idea of how they can preserve food, of how they’ll share a bed, how someone will have to stay up late on guard duty (just to make sure they don’t crash into…in to what, exactly?). 

She hears him but finds herself slowly tuning him out, instead taking the time to inch herself closer to him, so slowly that either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It isn’t until she puts her hand on top of his that he pauses, glancing at her for a moment with confusion clouding his face, before smiling again and saying, “Want me to tell you what I’ve been naming the stars? I like ‘The Commanders Scouts’ one best, let me show you where it is!” 

She’s sure surprise must be etched across her face for just a moment, gone so quick he misses it, that when she says, “Yes, show me where they are,” she forgets to mention she’s named some of her own. 

It isn’t until Eren laces their fingers together with one hand, pointing at the stars and their names with another, that she remembers her own; but by then she can think of nothing but her and Eren, hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh I love them


	28. Sometimes, Usually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes they fuck.
> 
> Sometimes they make love. 
> 
> Sometimes they make love in between the fucking.

Sometimes they fuck.

Sometimes they make love. 

Sometimes they make love in between the fucking. 

Usually, they fuck and drink coffee in silence after, her scrolling through missed texts and Snapchats on his bed with his head in her lap; both of them naked or both of them in underwear but always completely silent. It isn’t uncomfortable or awkward but peaceful, an understanding between the two of them.

Usually, she goes home after her cup is finished and Eren lies down on his bed for another hour with music that reminds him of her playing out of his laptop before he gets up and cleans his room, pretending she wasn’t there only an hour before. 

Usually, he sends her a text the next morning: _see you soon?_

Usually, she answers, later in the evening: _see you soon_.

She comes in waves and spurs and never by his schedule; he’s given up on trying to get her to go on dates with him. ( _“I don’t date, sorry.”_ ) She comes when she’s lonely, when she wants to talk without using words, when she feels happy or elated. She comes in all emotions and all weather; she often comes any time of the day or night convenient for her. If he’s honest, he hates that she’s unpredictable as much as he loves it. 

He wonders if she’s ever stopped by when he wasn’t around, if she left the apartment and came back later or considered him a lost cause for the day and found someone else. They talk little and he knows almost nothing about her personal life; he’s aware she’s majoring in environmental studies and that she loves organic chemistry and anatomy, that she’s good at math but doesn’t enjoy it. 

He met her in his sophomore year of college when he’d begun to look for a tutor in organic chemistry; she’d had a simple flier posted in the communal recreational room in the dorms offering help in science and he’d reached out to her. He can’t remember much about the first time he kissed her, the first time he ran his fingers through her hair or the first time she breathed his name in a way that was not as only friends should; he can only remember the first time he told her he loved her, because he told her so in the first moment he felt it.

They were not dating, had never been anything close to it, and had only been sleeping together after studying for a few moths when he told her. They had fallen into an easy routine—study, fuck, drink coffee, go home—and it was in a moment of _drink coffee_ when he saw her pouring coffee into her cup and his, adding too much cream to hers and a smidge of sugar to his out of habit that he knew he could do this on end with her every day if she’d allow it.

“Mikasa,” he’d said, coming up behind her, grabbing her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. Her body had tensed beneath his fingers and he knew why. This— _chin on shoulder_ —was not part of their routine. “What would you say if I told you I loved you?”

She’d stayed quiet, both cups gripped in separate hands, her head bent downward as she looked at the coffee. “I’d ask if you’d want more sugar in your coffee.”

“That’s not—”

“Please, Eren—would you like more sugar?” She’d looked up at him, eyes so large and pricked with water in the corners that he’d taken his cup in silence. He’d gone to his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed and waited an unusually long time for her to come in after. When she did, she looked pink but refreshed; she’d sat down on the other end of his bed, crossed her legs and gently tapped them for him to rest his head in.

Usually, he falls asleep with her fingers running through his hair in soft circles, gentle tugs that are soothing.

He thinks often of the time he told her he loved her, thinks often of how much he’d like to fall asleep with her in his arms and not his head in her lap. He wishes more than he’d like to admit that she’d talk to him instead of answering messages that remind him there are other people in both their lives. 

“Do you remember,” she says to him on a Sunday evening, one hand in his hair, the other answering a Snapchat, “when we were studying and you asked me why I like anatomy and chemistry so much?” 

“Mmhm…” he mutters in reply. He’s almost asleep when she speaks to him and her words to him sound muddled, as if he’s had too much to alcohol to drink. He turns his head, presses his lips to the side of her leg and kisses it softly, knowing full well he’s left behind a bit of lazy drool she’s nice enough not to comment about. 

“I like them because they’re explainable. They’re logical. But if you think about it, the chemical differences in our bodies make us all unique. The reasons you…care for me are not the same reasons you would like anyone else. You like other things about different people. What makes us like someone? What in our chemicals and theirs make us like each other? Our bodies are all so similar and so different at the same time.” She’s put her phone down now, her hand having stopped in his hair.

Eren opens his eyes, staring at her with more focus than he had before, and murmurs, “I don’t know, Mikasa.” 

“Why do I like you?” She whispers her words quietly, her eyes meeting his tentatively. “I wonder sometimes if I could even begin to fathom what it’s like to truly be in love.” 

Eren feels his throat close, knows this moment with her will pass soon if he does not reach out and grab it. He’s sure but hesitant when he reaches out to touch her cheek, to skim her lips with his fingertips. He says, in a voice more confident than he feels, “I could show you.” 

This time, his words make her smile, weary and unsure but with a new determination he has not seen from her before. She does not push him off her lap or kiss him in way of goodbye. 

Usually, she goes home, a quick blur in his line of sight before she disappears out the door. 

Usually, he sends her a message, pretends he doesn’t miss her with music that’s whimsical and passionate. 

Usually, they fuck, and—sometimes—they make love. 

Today, she stays.

She slides her body down on his bed, lets him curl his body around hers. 

Today, she agrees to let him show her why he loves her.


End file.
